


plummet

by TheGingerAvenger



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Gil Arroyo Acting as Malcolm Bright's Parental Figure, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Team as Family, Violence, but super brief, pre 1x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGingerAvenger/pseuds/TheGingerAvenger
Summary: Malcolm’s intimately familiar with the sensation of falling.But this...this feels like plummeting. Weightless. Disorienting. Panicked. An inevitable descent he has no control over. Helplessly and uselessly grasping at air..Gil is kidnapped and Malcolm will do whatever it takes to save him. Even if that means making a deal with his worst nightmare.
Comments: 233
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on the last chapter to the art of mending but this idea bit me and wouldn't let go, so have a kidnapping fic to distract you from the kidnapping cliffhanger

Malcolm’s intimately familiar with the sensation of falling.

Hypnic jerks are the most common. Finally drifting off to sleep only to jerk awake feeling like he’s skipped a step, the ground collapsing underneath him, heart pounding in his chest and a gasped breath on his lips. He’s also clumsy and sleep-deprived enough to trip over his own feet, cracks in the pavement, thin air. Something Ainsley never hesitates to tease him about.

But this...this feels like plummeting. Weightless. Disorienting. Panicked. An inevitable descent he has no control over. Helplessly and uselessly grasping at air.

Every time he closes his eyes, every time he blinks, he sees the patch of dark red seeping into the carpet of Gil’s house. His mind mechanically clicks through the signs of a struggle; the picture of Jackie tossed to the floor, spiderweb fractures distorting her smile, the knocked over coffee table, papers and mail spilled out on the carpet. It presents him with the outcome, even though his heart screams for an alternative. Gil lost.

Gil is gone. Gone. Gone.

The blame falls to Paul Lazar. The serial killer lashing out after Gil’s investigation dragged the FBI’s attention to him, but Malcolm’s instincts reject the idea. It goes against the profile. Against everything Paul stands for, everything he believes his murders to be. A righteous cleansing of the streets, a duty brought forth by some higher power. To reject that, to sully that cause, by kidnapping a cop? To retaliate by putting an even larger target on his back? Every single cop in New York City is going to be actively searching for him now. Why risk it?

It doesn’t make any sense.

An entire day passes with no leads. Dani’s anger becomes a weapon, a whip she lashes at anyone who wanders too close, while JT pulls back into sullen silence. Edrisa spirals, searching for any clues in past bodies, any hints of Gil’s location, with a fervor that borders on manic. Even Swanson appears affected by the tension, turning the caustic attitude she normally reserves for Malcolm onto anyone in her path.

None of them have stopped to eat, to drink, to breathe.

The station feels too hot, brimming with tension and short tempers, and after one too many angry glares from Colette, one too many hours spent pouring over all of Gil’s old case files, searching for a new suspect and finding _nothing_ , one too many possible scenarios and _what if’s_ and imagining him _dead_ , Malcolm seeks refuge outside.

The cold air stings his cheeks the moment he steps through the station doors, tilting his head back to stare up at the night sky. He forgot his coat in his haste to get outside and now the chill sneaks in under the thin layer of his suit, trailing goosebumps along his arms, the back of his neck, and he shivers. His breath plumes white in front of his face, there and then gone, and it doesn’t make any sense. Paul’s never targeted a police officer before. He’s only ever killed drug addicts, people he considers to be scum, to be beyond saving.

Not for the first time he wishes his father wasn’t in solitary. If anyone knows if Paul would do this, where Paul would take him, it would be Martin.

Though he doubts Martin would tell him anything useful.

He leans his hip against the railing and lets his eyes wander across the street, lets the sounds of the city wash over him. The distant sound of car horns and sirens, the shush of tires rolling over pavement. Tries to calm the thoughts circling uselessly in his head.

A buzz in his pocket drags him from his thoughts. Pulling the phone out with a grimace, he checks the screen expecting his mother’s name, calling for her half-hour update on news about Gil. Instead, the word unknown flashes up at him.

Everything grinds to a sickening halt. His thoughts, his panic, the world around him narrows down to that one, simple word. He glances over his shoulder at the station doors, the fleeting thought of getting backup crossing his mind. Almost as quickly as it appeared, he rejects it. He needs to make sure Gil makes it out of this alive, that he makes it back to safety in one piece, without having to be restrained by rules and guidelines and protocol.

Malcolm mechanically accepts the call and brings the phone to his ear. He tucks away all the worry, the panic, that’s been building since this morning and cords his voice with a steady calm. “Hello?”

“Malcolm, my boy, it’s your father!”

Malcolm freezes. _“Dad?_ ” The word pushes its way past his lips with the force of a gasp. “What-ho-you’re supposed to still be in solitary-“

“I figured it was about time my confinement came to an end. Twenty years locked away from my family is more than enough time to pay for ending a few, inconsequential lives, don’t you think?”

The words land like a punch to his stomach, their meaning a breathless clench around his lungs. It feels like he’s balancing on the edge of a precipice, a gaping expanse waiting just an inch in front of his feet. “How-“

“Mr. David has an absolutely lovely family, did you know? Three kids and two grandchildren.” He can just make out the sounds of clinking glass, running water, over his father’s cheerful voice. “Our dear friend Paul might have paid them a visit. You’d be surprised the lengths people will go to protect the ones they care about.” A heavy, weighted pause and then, “Or maybe not so surprised.”

Everything clicks into place with terrifying clarity. The streetlights across the road stream into streaks of gold as panic grips him. “You took him.” A statement, not a question. The words fall flat from numb lips.

“Yes, well, I think all three of us knew this day was going to come eventually.”

“Don’t hurt him, please.” His voice cracks around the soft plea and he squeezes his eyes shut, only to snap them back open when the image of the bloodstain, large and damning, flashes across his mind.

“It’s a little too late for that, my dear boy.”

The ground tilts sharply underneath him. Malcolm stumbles back and presses the palm of his hand against the side of the police station, trying to keep his knees from caving under him and all he can see is Gil dead on a table. Gil with his chest torn open or his veins filled with poison. Gil glassy-eyed and _gone_. “Is he still alive?”

The pause on the other end is too long, too weighted, and a scream builds in Malcolm’s chest, his grip on the phone tightening enough to make it creak.

“For now.”

Malcolm sucks in a too shallow breath. Things are moving too quickly, events and revelations flashing past too fast for him to fully grasp, sending his head spinning. He presses his palm harder against the wall, the rough stone digging into his skin. “What do you want?” Part of him already knows. But he hopes, and hopes, that he’s wrong.

He can almost picture Martin tilting his head to the side, can almost see the faintly disappointed look on his face. “You already know that, Malcolm.”

He’s falling, falling, falling

When he manages to get enough air in his lungs to speak, his voice comes out steadier than he thought it would. It’s easy to sound detached when he’s staring at a brick wall. When he can pretend this is all just some horrible nightmare. “Where are you?”

“At your apartment!” The unrestrained excitement in Martin’s voice makes him want to scream, to curl into a ball on the pavement, to just _stop_. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Very modern. And that weapons collection is quite an upgrade from your pocketknife.”

His stomach clenches at the thought of Martin in his apartment, his home, moving around his belongings with blatant curiosity, but he shoves the feeling back. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh, and Malcolm?” His father’s voice is still cheerful and bright, like they’re discussing where to meet for lunch. “Bring any cops with you and I’ll cut his intestines out before you reach the door.”

“Wait!” His desperate cry meets nothing but a dial tone. The noise blares in his ears, twines with the roar of blood, the wild thump of his heart, and the image of Gil slumped in a chair, the insides of his stomach a red tangle at his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a ragged breath of air, desperately clawing himself back together. He needs to think, he needs to act, he needs to _move._ Anything other than standing frozen on the steps.

His father isn’t a very patient man.

Everything that faded into the distance comes crashing back with too loud clarity: car horns, music, voices, grating against his skin. The past few minutes stutter on repeat in his head, taking on a panicked tinge of unreality, spurred on by denial. It could be a hallucination. A very vivid hallucination. But he can’t take the chance. Not with Gil’s life on the line.

Malcolm uncurls his fingers from around the phone, one at a time, each one aching from the force of his grip. He makes it two steps down the stairs before he stops and glances over his shoulder at the station doors. For a second, he’s griped with the urge to run back inside. Not to tell them, he won’t risk them trying to stop him, but to see them one last time.

He buries the urge down deep before turning and racing off down the street.

* * *

It takes three tries for his shaking hands to work the lock on his door. He’s been running through a list of strategies on the way over, what to say, how to act, what to do to get his father as far away from Gil as possible. Tries to pretend this is just like any hostage negotiation, but those thoughts flee the moment he takes in the dark stairs stretching upwards into his apartment and dread settles like a stone in his stomach.

His feet are heavy as lead as he makes his way up the stairs, feeling the weight of every step, every deliberate move closer, press against him. He strains to pick up something from the apartment, some noise or sign of what he’s about to walk into, but it’s quiet. He can’t even hear Sunshine.

With a shaking hand, he eases the door open and steps into his home, muscles coiled tight. Most of the lights are off, shadows clinging heavy to the corners, but there’s just enough light streaming in through the windows to silhouette the figure slumped in a chair, situated just in front of his bed.

Malcolm’s heart leaps to his throat, his gasp cracking loud across the silent room, and the figure’s head snaps up. Malcolm’s across the room in an instant, falling to his knees in front of Gil, shaking hands hovering uselessly around Gil’s restrained body. 

For the first time since that morning, Malcolm feels like he can take a full breath. Gil’s eyes are open, locked onto Malcolm with a mixture of exasperation and fear. Duct tape covers his mouth. A few shallow cuts mar his face, a bruise traces the edges of his temple and swells his eye, an alarming patch of red stains his shirt, but he’s alive and breathing.

 _He’s alive_.

Everything grinds to a sickening halt when Malcolm’s eyes land on Gil’s right hand. It’s a mottled mess of bruises and cuts, the fingers crooked and swelling, the bones shattered.

His stomach churns with nausea and guilt, a litany of _sorry_ ’s whispering from his lips. Gil’s arms and legs are zip-tied to the chair’s armrests and legs. There’s no easy way to get him free in a short period of time and Malcolm tries not to let the despair welling his chest overwhelm him.

Gil looks at him questioningly through the haze of pain clouding his eyes. They drift past him to the door, searching for the backup Malcolm didn’t bring, and then snap back to him in alarm. He grunts something through the tape, a warning, but Malcolm forces his lips into a shaky smile, even as he hears footsteps calmly making their way down the stairs behind him.

“I know,” he whispers. “Let me save you this time.”

Gil’s eyes widen with horrified understanding, the muffled grunts growing more urgent, more commanding, more desperate, but the footsteps stop and Malcolm can _feel_ him standing just a few feet away, staring at him.

He slowly rises to his feet and turns around, heartbeat a distant flutter in his chest. For a second, all he can bring himself to look at are his father’s shoes. Practical boots already covered in dirt, speckled with red blood. He takes a slow, deep breath before dragging his stare up to meet his father’s beaming face.

“Malcolm,” Martin says. The light outside the window bathes his face in a contrast of light and shadow, and his eyes gleam. “Finally.”

It’s still a shock when Martin starts to walk forward. Free of chains and cuffs. Enough of a shock, enough of a scene from his nightmares, that Malcolm cringes back a few steps without meaning to, leaving Gil behind. For every hesitant step backward Malcolm takes, Martin takes two, until the back of Malcolm’s calves hit the edge of his bed and Martin pauses beside Gil.

Who’s, even tied to a chair and with a broken hand, growling threats up at the serial killer through the duct tape over his mouth.

Martin stares down at him contemplatively before he roughly jerks the chair around until Gil is facing Malcolm, grinning when the movement causes Gil to grunt in pain.

“You have no idea how tempting the thought of killing him is,” Martin says conversationally. “I’ve dreamed of all the different ways I would do it. Slowly and painfully. Finally ending the cop who took me away from my family.”

“That wasn’t him,” Malcolm rasps. “That was me. I was the one who called the police. He just happened to show up. It was my fault.”

Martin keeps talking like Malcolm never spoke, that distant, detached look glazing over his eyes and sending terror screeching through every inch of Malcolm’s body. “Did you know, the human body can withstand an extraordinary amount of pain before succumbing to death? I’ve always wondered how many bones one can shatter before someone finally dies.” Martin slowly and deliberately presses a single finger against the back of Gil’s broken hand.

“Stop stop stop stop, _please_ ,” Malcolm begs over the sound of Gil’s pained whine, the cop’s face contorted in agony. He holds out a shaking hand like it’s enough to stop Martin, voice tight. “Please, I’ll go with you, I promise, I’ll do whatever, just please leave him alone.”

Martin’s hand drifts from Gil’s broken one to his other hand, expression turning contemplative, and Malcolm feels his insides contract.

“There’s something poetic about it though,” Martin continues, though Malcolm can barely hear him over the roar in his ears, over the fear and agony in Gil’s eyes. “Ten fingers for the ten years you were away. Ten years I was left alone in that cell. He’d never be able to hold a gun again.”

Malcolm forces himself to shift forward a step, if only to bring Martin’s attention to him and away from Gil. “No,” he says, voice hoarse. “That was _me_. That was my decision to leave you, not him.” Martin’s hand still hovers above Gil’s and raw desperation leaks into Malcolm’s voice, a sting burning his eyes. “I’m sorry, dad, I’m so sorry.” The words threaten to choke him on the way out, but he forces himself to speak them anyway when Martin’s eyes snap to him. “I shouldn’t have left, that wasn’t fair. But I’m here now. We can start over, we can fix this, just please let him go. I’ll do whatever you want, just let him go.”

Martin’s face breaks out into a wide, pleased smile and Malcolm drops his attention back to Gil, even though it hurts to see the pain on his face, the tears streaming down his cheeks, the bruise forming around his eyes, because it’s safer than looking at Martin’s utter delight.

“Now, was that so hard to say?” Martin says and gestures to the counter where Malcolm notices a mug waiting on the surface. “Why don’t you be a good boy and finish your drink and we’ll be on our way.”

For a moment, Malcolm can’t move, can’t breathe, frozen in place by terror. He knows the Surgeon’s preferred method of subduing his victims is by drugging their drinks, and for the first time the reality of the situation, of what he’s about to do, crashes into him. Panic makes his vision swim, his breath stutter in his chest, and the sight of Martin’s hand drifting back to Gil’s broken fingers is the only thing that snaps him out of the budding panic attack.

He edges his way towards the kitchen, keeping as much distance between himself and Martin as he can, skin crawling when Martin’s eyes follow him the entire way. By the time he makes it to the kitchen, his breaths are thin, panicked rasps in his throat, but he forces himself to wrap his hands around the mug and imagines this is happening to someone else. The mug is warm. Fresh. Trails of lavender-scented steam unfurling upwards to brush against his cheeks.

Even though he stares pointedly down at the liquid, he can hear the grin in Martin’s voice. “Chamomile tea. I wanted to make you some hot chocolate, just like old times, but you didn’t have any.”

The urge to snap that he hasn’t had hot chocolate since the day Martin was arrested, that the thought of drinking it always makes him sick, rises sharp and heated to the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back down. Martin’s still standing too close to Gil to risk angering him. Instead, Malcolm brings the cup up, hesitating with the rim pressed against his lips. He would almost rather Martin shove a needle in his veins or force a chloroformed rag over his nose than this slow and deliberate drugging.

His eyes move from the mug to his father, half of his face bathed in shadow, the other highlighted by a delighted grin. The first sip burns his tongue, the top of his mouth, and scorches its way down his throat.

Martin turns Gil’s chair around again so the cop can watch, bending down low to whisper something in his ear that sends Gil growing. Distantly, Malcolm wonders if it’s Martin’s way to reminding Malcolm of the threat, to keep him compliant until the drugs hit his system, or if it’s another way of torturing Gil. Of having him watch when he’s helpless to stop it.

Smug at the cop’s reaction, Martin straightens and turns his attention back to his son. “Things will be better this time around,” Martin says. “We won’t have to worry about keeping up appearances for society. No more jobs or social functions or school, just the two of us.” His stare drops to where Malcolm’s hand trembles against the counter. “You’ll be feeling much better soon.”

Malcolm wants to throw up. Bile rises up his throat, but he swallows it back, clenching his fingers into a fist and glancing away before taking another sip.

“I need to call his team,” Malcolm says. “He won’t make it very long unless someone comes to take him to the hospital.” He looks up in time to see Martin’s frown and forces his words to be firm. “Him surviving is part of the deal.”

After a long, tense moment, Martin finally nods in agreement and Malcolm fishes his phone out of his pocket. Dani answers on the first ring.

“Bright.” Her voice is frayed, turned sharper by anger and worry. “Where are you? We’ve been looki-“

“I found him.”

“What? What do you mean you found him?”

He can just make out the low timbre of JT’s voice in the background, the rev of a car engine.

“He’s at my apartment. He’s going to need an ambulance.” He swallows another gulp of tea but tastes nothing but ash. “He’s got a broken hand, probably a concussion, and a wound in his side.”

“At your apartment?” There’s the sound of sirens now, loud and piercing, splitting through the phone, but Malcolm feels himself being wrapped up in the tone of Dani’s voice. The alarm and confusion working their way through each word. “Why is he at your apartment?”

Malcolm closes his eyes. “You’ll need to hurry. He’s in bad shape.”

“Bright, you need to tell me what’s going on. Is Paul there?” She’s using that voice, the slightly warning, slightly worried, one that she has when she knows he’s about to do something stupid, something reckless and dangerous. It reminds him of that first case, with the needle pressed against his skin and her voice repeating _Bright, no_ again and again, when she tried to talk him off the ledge he’s been living on since his father’s arrest. “Do _not_ leave with him, you understand? Stay there until we get there, stall him, do anything but leave.”

A _sorry_ rises up his throat and dies before it can leave his lips. Instead, he whispers, “I’ll be fine. Trust beats fear, remember?”

He hangs up before she can speak and hopes she hears the words he didn’t say. _I trust you to find me._

When he looks up from his phone, Martin is closer, just an arm’s length away, staring at him with the same attentiveness as he’s always had, but looking like a delighted child on Christmas morning.

Malcolm looks at Gil instead as he swallows the last of his drink. Gil’s eyes are red, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he keeps shaking his head, keeps pulling against the restraints even though it must hurt. Malcolm tries to smile reassuringly, but he can’t. It’s already harder to move, harder to focus, harder to think. His limbs feel disconnected from his body, numb and useless, his thoughts slipping through his fingers like sand.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Martin brushes a thumb against his cheek, wiping away a stray tear and turning Malcolm’s face away from Gil and towards him. It’s only because the drugs have weighed him down that Malcolm doesn’t flinch.

Martin’s smile softens, eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “It’ll all be better soon. You’ll see.”

Darkness seeps into the edges of Malcolm’s vision, the sound of Gil’s muffled sobs breaking apart in his ears, and he’s falling, falling, falling


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented/left kudos/bookmarked this story! You guys made a long week so much better. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as well, and happy holidays!

Malcolm wakes with a gasp to a blanket tucked under his chin, the steady rumble of a car engine, and his temple pressed against cool glass.

Details of a nightmare fragment in his head, leaving behind nothing but an overwhelming sense of dread and a fast-beating heart. Grogginess tugs insistently at him as he struggles to keep his eyes open, lids as heavy as concrete. Confusion and disorientation follow when he fights off the thick, lingering exhaustion long enough to peer blearily around. He’s slumped in the passenger seat of a car, his head propped against the window, the radio a soft murmur in his ears. Night waits outside, the trees flashing by nothing more than darker swatches of color.

Malcolm frowns, forehead creasing. Memories tug and tangle in his mind, hazy and fuzzed at the edges, flashes that are hardly more than a prickle of familiarity. The sound of his father humming under his breath, the taste of a green apple candy, tart and sweet, on his tongue. The black strip of concrete unfurling endlessly through the windshield, Gil’s laughter echoing in his ears. The low timbre of his father’s voice, tone curled around the punch line of a joke, and Paul’s answering bark of laughter. Waking up with his head resting against the passenger window to find Gil has been driving in aimless circles, content to let him sleep a little longer.

Malcolm’s lips move around the shape of Gil’s name. All that comes out is a croak, his tongue too dry and parched to form sounds. He swallows thickly and turns his head to admonish Gil for letting him sleep so long when he has work to do. When there’s something he needs to figure out. Something important.

But it’s not Gil he finds in the driver’s seat. Features illuminated by dashboard lights, Martin Whitly glances at him sideways, eyebrows raised. “Awake so soon?”

Any lingering effects of the sedative burn away under a bright flare of shock and every muscle in Malcolm’s body locks. The events of the last few hours slam into Malcolm as he stares, paralyzed, at his dad. Gil missing, Martin’s voice on the phone, Gil tied down and hurt and his father smiling at him, saying everything’s going to be okay. Malcolm’s breath quickens into shallow gasps, vision tunneling. Jerking forward in his seat, he’s stopped by the seatbelt strapped across his chest. His hands are handcuffed behind his back, the metal cool against the skin of wrists. He’s stuck.

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, trying to clamp down on the panic threatening to drag him spiraling downwards. He needs to calm down. He needs to approach this calmly, like any of the worst-case scenarios he’s trained for in the FBI, if he has any chance of escaping. He needs to treat this like the man beside him is anyone but his father. Like this is anything but his worst nightmare.

It takes him a moment to realize Martin’s still talking. Longer still to focus over the roaring in his ears.

“-asleep a few more hours. I was hoping you’d at least get a decent night’s rest for once.” Malcolm wonders if he imagines the tinge of irritation in Martin’s voice. But it’s gone, replaced by cheery excitement before he can be sure. “Well, no matter! We’re almost there anyway.”

Malcolm clenches his jaw and steels his resolve before glancing at his dad. Martin’s dyed his hair light, almost blondish white, and trimmed it closer to his scalp, shaved the unkempt beard. Not completely different, but enough that no one will make the connection between him and the Surgeon, especially when he smiles at them the way he does at Malcolm, wide and soft, with crinkled corner eyes.

Malcolm jerks his gaze away and stares out of the windshield. Headlights cut a wide swath of light in front of the car, but he can make out nothing but pavement and trees. His eyes slip down to the radio clock. 6:45 am. He’s been drugged for almost six hours. Dani and JT would have taken Gil to the hospital hours ago.

He hopes Gil is okay. He hopes he’s not in a lot of pain. He hopes Gil knows none of this was Gil’s fault, that he won’t blame himself. He hopes Martin kept his word and left Gil alive.

Malcolm tears his mind away from that particular line of thought and the gruesome images it brings up. He’s sure Martin wouldn’t be able to resist bragging by now if he killed Gil.

“Where are we going?” He puts every effort into forcing his voice to be steady as he speaks to the dashboard. Maybe if he can gather as much information as possible about where they are, where they’re headed, he can better plan for an escape.

“To one of our old camping haunts.” Malcolm can hear the excited grin in Martin’s voice. His mother’s words whisper in his ear _giddy as a schoolboy_ and a shiver trails down Malcolm’s spine.

“And what, exactly, is your plan? Stay hidden until things die down?” Despite his best efforts, some of his panic leaks out into his voice, tightening it to a thin strain. “Do you really think they’re ever going to stop looking for you?”

Martin snorts. “We don’t have to worry about them, considering how incompetent New York’s finest are. You seem to forget, I killed for years before they ever caught on. I doubt they would have ever found me if you hadn’t called them.”

Tension coils tighter in Malcolm’s stomach. Martin’s never expressed anger towards him over calling the police, but it’s still not something he wants Martin thinking about while he’s restrained just a few inches away. “So, we’re just going to camp? Roast marshmallows and sing some songs?”

“We’re going to work on making you feel better.” Martin frowns. “I didn’t realize how... negatively my absence has impacted your health until your sister brought it up in her interview.”

It takes a moment for his words to fully click in Malcolm’s head. He gapes at Martin. “Your absen- _what_?”

“Obviously, not having a father in your life has played a role in all of your health issues. So, naturally, I did what any loving father would do.”

“Kidnap your son?” A tinge of hysteria twines through Malcolm’s anger, turning his voice shrill. “Handcuff his hands behind his back?”

“I could have put you in the trunk,” Martin says, almost defensively. Like it’s something Malcolm should be grateful for. “But it’s been too long since we’ve truly been together, I didn’t want to put any unnecessary space between us.”

Malcolm leans his head back against the headrest and breathes in deep and slow, stomach clenching. He can’t tell if it’s from the thought of almost being stuck in the trunk or the thought that he’s been unconscious just inches away from his father for _hours_. Probably a mixture of both.

“Your sister mentioned your night terrors,” Martin continues, shooting him a quick glance. “It seemed like you were about to have one just then.”

Malcolm presses his lips into a thin line and stares resolutely out the window. The sky up ahead has started to lighten. Maybe once the sun rises, he’ll be able to figure out what road they’re on. Maybe he’ll see something other than the never-ending stretch of trees lining the road, speed limit signs, and the occasional flare of headlights from passing cars, moving too quickly in the opposite direction to be much help. Maybe he’ll make it through a conversation with his narcissistic, highly deluded, serial killer father without screaming. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martin presses.

“I am _never_ going to tell you about them,” Malcolm snarls through clenched teeth, fingers tightening behind his back. Just the thought makes him feel sick. He’s sure Martin will be utterly delighted to know he stars in most of them.

“Oh, now, don’t be childish,” Martin admonishes. “Talking about them often helps.” When Malcolm still doesn’t answer, he keeps pushing. “It wasn’t about the girl in the box, was it?”

Rage burns hot in his chest, intertwining with the frustration of having the truth hidden from him for _years_. “I know she was real,” he snaps, voice shaking with anger. “Paul Lazar confirmed it.”

Martin’s fingers tighten almost minutely around the steering wheel. “Did he, now?”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time.”

“Sometimes a parent has to do questionable things in order to protect their children.”

The laugh that bursts past Malcolm’s lips is bitter, twisted, balancing on the edge of panic. “Questionable things? Like drugging them? And don’t you dare try to tell me you didn’t do that, either. I know you used chloroform on me.”

“If telling yourself that makes you feel better, then by all means, go ahead.”

“Why can’t you just tell me what happened?” He can’t quite keep the pleading out of his voice, no matter how hard he tries.

Martin shrugs. “Would you even believe me if I did? You already call me a liar and refuse to believe me when I tell you we’re the same. Who says you won’t just reject it again when faced with proof?”

Ice skitters down Malcolm’s spine. His breath catches in his throat. That night looms in front of him, a wide, bottomless chasm. “What do mean,” he says, voice whisper-soft, and he can _feel_ it, blood underneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his palm, “’faced with proof’?”

Martin slides him a contemplative look before turning his attention back to the road. “Maybe we’ll save that for a later time,” he finally says. “After we’ve discussed your dreams, perhaps.”

Malcolm’s fingers clench tight enough to dig his nails into the palms of his hands, that familiar sensation of anger and frustration flaring hot through his veins. “Of course, of course,” he scoffs. “There always has to be some kind of bargain.”

“It’s not like you’ve given me much choice. If you were more open with me, it would be easier.”

Malcolm turns his glare out the window, clenching his jaw tight. Talking to his father was a mistake. It was a mistake to think he could get anything useful out of the man, much less the truth.

“But no worries,” Martin continues. “We’ll move past this communication block soon.”

Malcolm hardly hears him. His attention snags on something by the road. Something that flashes by almost too fast for him to catch.

A gas station.

The lights were on, bright against the fading night, a few cars idling in the parking lot. One person stood outside, smoking a cigarette. Hope spirals, frantic and breathless, in his chest as they drive by, a half-formed idea igniting in his head. If he can get out of the car, if he can escape now and make it to the station, borrow a phone . . .

Malcolm tries to tamp down on his hope before his father can spot it. He shoots a quick glance at Martin, but he’s still focused on the road, seemingly content with the silence between them for the moment.

Anticipation coils tighter in Malcolm’s chest. It’ll have to be quick. Difficult to do with his hands tied behind his back but doable. He’ll have to put as much force behind the hit as he can and hope it’s enough to knock Martin out. Hope that he can make it to the station before he wakes up. Hope that no one stumbles into Martin’s crosshairs while he’s getting reinforcements. The thought of what might happen if it’s not enough, if he doesn’t get away, makes nausea churn in his stomach.

But anything has to be better than what his father has planned.

Malcolm slides his eyes shut. Settles his feet flat on the floor. Breathes in deep, holds it, releases. And again, and again, trying to calm his stuttering heart.

“Do you remember the first time I took you camping, when we stopped at that-” Martin starts, fondness lightening his voice, but Malcolm doesn’t wait for him to finish.

He twists in his seat, pulling his legs up to his chest, and kicks out over the center console. Martin reacts before he hits him. One hand snaps off the wheel to grab Malcolm’s right ankle, but he’s not fast enough to stop Malcolm’s other foot from smashing into the side of his face. Malcolm’s thrown into the passenger door as the car jerks across the road, the back of his head cracking against the window. Martin’s pain-filled curse cracks through the air and the car slams to a halt, the grating sound of crunching metal drowning out everything else. Malcolm’s tossed to the dashboard, stopped only by the bruising force of the seatbelt digging into his chest and waist.

Malcolm slams back into the seat, pain flares in the back of his head and across his chest, a high-pitched ringing filling his ears. It takes a moment for him to get his lungs working again, desperately dragging in breaths with wheezing gasps. When he manages to get his breath back, he glances across at his father, tensing.

Martin’s head rests against the steering wheel, pressed against the horn. A small trail of crimson tracks down his forehead and beads on the tip of his nose. For a moment, Malcolm can’t move, transfixed by that trail of crimson, until Martin’s forehead creases.

That small movement sends panic screeching across Malcolm’s skin. Quickly, he turns his back to his dad, trying to unclasp the seatbelt with his bound hands. Images of his father waking, reaching for him, angry, constrict his chest tighter and tighter with panic. The seatbelt finally comes undone and Malcolm twists back around, heart in his throat, to see Martin still unconscious against the wheel. Throwing himself back closer to the door, his hands scramble for the door handle, a desperate sob leaking past clenched teeth. Beside him, Martin stirs, groaning.

Malcolm’s fingers catch on the handle and he pulls while shoving himself backward. He tumbles out into an awkward heap on the ground when the door swings open.

It takes a moment for him to push himself to his feet. A moment longer to orient himself, his ears still ringing from the screech of metal, to try and drag the direction of the gas station from his jumbled thoughts. Another sound from the car, the mumbled beginnings of his name, snaps him out of his hesitation and he takes off into the forest.

Branches and twigs snag on his clothes, dense foliage catching on his ankles and threatening to send him sprawling to the ground, his bound hands useless behind him. Dawn light turns the forest almost grey, tree trunks and skeletal branches leached of color. His breath rasps in ragged gasps in his lungs, twigs and branches snapping and cracking around him. The analytical part of him knows he’s making too much noise, leaving behind a too obvious trail to be followed, but the other part, the terrified part, just wants to get away.

Memories drag at him like snatching fingers, claws sinking deep. Running through the forest covered in blood, a knife gripped in his hand, someone crashing through the underbrush behind him, someone chasing him. He can’t tell if what he’s seeing or hearing is from a memory or the present, the two merging together into an indistinguishable blur.

The fear is the same, though. Thick as sludge through his veins, a choking stranglehold around his throat. The terror that someone’s getting closer, he’s going to trip and fall, the woods are never going to end, it’s just going to be a never-ending forest of grey trunks and-

A body slams into his back. Malcolm crashes onto the forest floor, face catching on twigs and leaves. The breath flies from his lungs as Martin lands on top of him with a growl, a heavy, unyielding weight. Malcolm twists, sucks in a ragged, dirt-filled breath, and screams. The noise cracks through the quiet forest before a hand slams down over his mouth.

Malcolm struggles and kicks, desperation a living, clawing thing in his chest. The hand over his mouth disappears. He tries to suck in another breath for a scream, but he’s roughly jerked onto his back, and he freezes, the scream sticking in his throat. His father’s twisted face snarls down at him. Crimson blood trails down his nose, his lips, drips off his chin. A red mark shaped like the heel of Malcolm’s shoe stands out against his cheek and an almost feral desperation burns in his eyes. “I am _not_ going to lose you again,” Martin growls.

It’s not until Martin shifts, one knee braced against Malcolm’s chest, that Malcolm notices the tire iron gripped in his hands. It’s not until Martin pulls his arm back that it dawns on Malcolm what he plans on doing.

It’s like watching in slow motion, a distant realization that he’s helpless to do anything to stop it, helpless to do anything but watch as Martin brings the iron down as hard as he can onto Malcolm’s leg.

The crack reverberates through his entire body and for a moment he can feel nothing, poised on the edge of shock, before pain shatters across his shin in a white-hot, blinding heat. Malcolm bucks, fingers digging into dirt, his scream trapped behind a hand slapped over his mouth. Nausea churns in his stomach as tears leak through squeezed shut eyes and his howl strains into a low, pained moan.

It takes an agony hazed moment for him to realize Martin’s holding him, restraint masquerading as a hug, one hand against his head, muttering assurances in his ear. Malcolm stiffens with a ragged whine and tries to push away regardless of the agony each movement brings, needing to get away, but Martin’s grip tightens to a bruising force.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, my boy,” Martin whispers soft enough to almost regretful, even as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a roll of duct tape. He rips off a strip in one harsh motion, gripping Malcolm’s chin tight to keep his head still as he presses it over Malcolm’s mouth.

Shock, adrenaline, and pain shiver across Malcolm’s skin as Martin straightens. He feels pulled apart from this moment by denial, even as the pain in his leg settles into an all-consuming throb. He can’t bring himself to look at it, to see the extent of the damage, as if that will make it all the more real. Instead, he stares up at the canopy of tree branches, devoid of leaves, hot tears sliding down his temple to his hairline.

Martin appears again in his line of sight, bending down to slide one arm under Malcolm’s knees and the other behind his shoulders. Malcolm has just enough time to brace himself before Martin scoops him up in his arms. A wave of dizziness slams into Malcolm, the skeletal branches overhead churning into a kaleidoscope. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and curls up as much as he can in Martin’s arms, a pained whine escaping clenched teeth. Each step sends a jolt of pain through his leg, made all the worse by the way his dad keeps whispering that it’ll be all right, it’ll be okay.

He tries to focus on anything other than the pain, than Martin’s arms holding him up and close, until Martin stops. Malcolm can feel the tension coiling through his muscles, and Malcolm’s eyes snap open, fear spiking. But Martin’s not looking at him. Malcolm follows his line of sight through the trees to the road.

A car has stopped beside the wreck, headlights on, engine idling. A young man hovers beside the open passenger door, one hand clutching his hair as he peers into their car, the other pressing a cell phone against his ear.

Martin freezes before carefully settling Malcolm onto the ground. His face is disturbingly blank when he looks down at Malcolm. “Just remember, this could have been avoided.”

Realization dawns in a cold trickle down his spine. Malcolm shouts as loud as he can around the duct tape over his mouth. The noise is muffled, faint, but just loud enough to send the young man jumping skittishly, head snapping to the side of the road in time to see Martin stumble from the trees.

Malcolm’s not close enough to see his expression, but he can read the man’s body language. The way the fear drains from his shoulders in a relieved slump upon realizing it’s just a helpless, disoriented old man stumbling towards him across the road. Malcolm’s familiar enough with his father’s murders and methods, with how he uses charisma to lure people into dropping their guard, to know how this will end.

Malcolm rolls onto his side and tries to use his good leg to shove himself across the forest floor, clenching his teeth against the agony that radiates with every movement. He keeps going, sucking in short, ragged bursts of air through his nose, vision blurring around tears, trying to make as much noise as possible.

The two men keep talking. Malcolm can barely hear them over the pain screeching through his veins by the time he breaks through the tree line. Martin’s opened the door to the backseat of their car, rummaging for something in the luggage, the young man still frowning at the wreckage when Malcolm puts as much effort into a scream as he can.

The man’s head snaps towards him, eyes blowing wide when he spots Malcolm on the ground, hands bound behind his back. And then Martin’s straightening, turning, slapping a rag over the man’s mouth before his lips can part in a scream.

The struggle is quick. Over in a second.

The man goes limp in Martin’s arms. Martin drops him on the pavement before making his way towards the man’s car. Malcolm turns his head to look down the road with a sob, desperately searching for a hint of headlights, for someone else to come. But the road remains empty. By the time he looks back, Martin has the keys to the other car in his hand, the trunk popped open, and he dumps the young man into it with little ceremony.

The sound of the trunk slamming shut is loud, a sharp crack, in the silence. Martin starts making his way back towards Malcolm, the rag still clutched in his hands. The rising sun stretches Martin’s shadow down the road, dark black against vivid orange, an elongated monster made of sharp edges and jagged lines.

Malcolm cringes back when Martin gets closer, mumbling pleas and shaking his head, vision blurring with tears and panic. Martin crouches down and gently brushes a strand of hair off Malcolm’s forehead. His eyes are bright, his lips twisted, as he presses the rag against Malcolm’s nose.

“This would have been much easier,” he whispers as the chemically sweet smell of chloroform floods Malcolm’s nose and darkness creeps in across his vision. “If you had just behaved.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a brief break from Malcolm, but have some angsty Gil and his ticked off and protective team.
> 
> There is a JB's diner in New Jersey, but that's about the extent of my knowledge on New Jersey so don't expect anything else to be accurate.
> 
> Also, did anyone else think it was weird that Mr. David let Martin obsessively call Malcolm in the second episode??

Consciousness comes back to Gil in scattered fragments. He floats aloft in the hazy grip of sedatives and pain killers, his dreams melding with reality. A stream of faces cycle across his blurry vision, changing every time he drags his eyes open. Dani’s face, drawn tight with worry, JT telling him to hold on. Strangers with parts of their faces obscured by surgical masks. Nurses with lips pressed into considering frowns.

Sometimes he opens his eyes and it’s Jackie standing over him. A soft, sad smile on her face as a gentle hand brushes his hair back. “You did your best,” she whispers. “You did your best.”

She always said that after a hard case, when he didn’t manage to save everyone. When he came home with the weight of other people’s deaths draped around his neck like a noose. But he can’t remember what case she’s referring to. He knows there’s something wrong. It sits heavy and cold in his gut, but the details slip through his fingers like smoke, and she’s gone before he can remember how to work his mouth.

At one point he wakes from a nightmare, a dream of needing to get to someone and not being able to move, to fire in his hand and a nurse fiddling with the machinery beside his bed. The room is dark. Lit only by the artificial lights from the devices surrounding him and Malcolm is sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed. A solemn-faced eleven-year-old with too serious blue eyes.

Gil blinks sluggishly at the kid. “Another nightmare?”

The nurse pauses before realizing he’s not talking to her and continues pressing buttons. He hopes she kills that persistent beeping noise.

Malcolm’s head bobs in a nod but he keeps his stare on the stiff white blanket, drawing nonsensical patterns with the tip of his finger. “He got out,” he whispers, and his voice seems to echo in Gil’s ears, to meld with another, older version. _Let me save you this time._ “He took me.”

Gil knows it’s never a good idea to make promises in his line of work, especially to children. Not when there are so many things out of his control, when there are so many things that can and will go wrong. But he wants to smooth that look of fear off Malcolm’s face, out of his eyes. Wants so badly for him to have one peaceful night without the threat of his father looming over his head.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and his words slur together, the pain in his hand fading into blissful numbness. “I’ll make sure that never happens.”

Bright blue eyes lift to meet his as sleep begins to drag him back under and they’re sad. So, so very sad. “Liar.”

* * *

Gil wakes to the steady beep of hospital machinery and pain settled deep and burning in the bones of his hand. Sunlight filters in through the shuttered windows, hazy streams of gold tossed through the room. He peers around in sluggish confusion, trying to piece together how he ended up in the hospital, until his eyes land on his hands, placed delicately on top of the white sheets. A brace encases one, stretching from his wrist all the way to the tips of his fingers, keeping his entire hand immobile. White bandages wrap thick around his wrists.

At the sight of the bandages, it hits him like a peal of thunder, a rumbling, enraged roar that shudders through him. Martin in his home, the terror on Malcolm’s face, zip ties digging into flesh, and Martin leaning down to whisper, voice a hot brush of air against his ear, as Malcolm takes that first sip of tea. _“See, in the end, he’ll always choose me.”_

Rage coalesces in Gil’s chest and he jerks up, detaching himself from IV’s and monitors with fumbling fingers and no regard for the pain that flares in his side. The heart monitor slices off into abrupt silence and a nurse rushes in, wide eyes taking in his struggle to fling his legs over the side of the bed. Gil gets to his feet too fast and a wave of dizziness makes the room spin, his vision turning dark. He leans against the bed, propping himself up with his good hand, and breathes through the nausea and dizziness. Forcing himself to push past it. He doesn’t have time for this. Malcolm doesn’t have time for this.

“Mr. Arroyo, please, you really need to lie back down,” the nurse urges. She takes a step towards him, one hand up as if to steady him, but comes to a stumbling halt when he levels a glare in her direction.

“How long have I been here?” He demands. The sunlight through the windows makes his chest tight, his head spin with possibilities. Has he been out for days? Weeks?

“You really need to lie back down until the docto-“

“How long have I been here?” He snaps, desperation sharpening his voice to a thin point. Needing and dreading the answer.

The nurse presses her lips into a thin line before admitting. “Almost twenty-four hours.”

Gil curses. The weight of that time slams against him with the force of a punch. Twenty-four hours. An entire day stuck unconscious and useless in a hospital while Martin took Malcolm who knows where, to do who knows what.

His anger grows into a buzzing roar inside his head, his good hand curling into a knuckle-aching fist on the sheets. Pushing himself off the bed with a clenched-teethed grunt, his eyes land on a bag of clothes sitting on one of the chairs. He snatches it up. “I’m leaving. Now.”

Walking is almost as difficult as standing, all light-headed and limping, stumbling movements, but he makes it to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him while the nurse runs back into the hallway to fetch his doctor.

Gil jerks the hospital gown off and starts dressing, spitting curses at his useless hands, when he catches sight of the bandages on his side, just above his right hip, and freezes and _there’s a pain in his head, explosive and blinding, and a soft whisper in his ear. “Did you know, if done correctly, it can take someone hours, even days, to bleed out?” before something small and sharp slowly slides through skin and muscle, agony growing like a spark spreading into a wildfire._

Sucking in a shuddering breath through gritted teeth, Gil pulls himself away from the memory and drops his stare to his hands. The memory of his hand getting broken is drowned and lost in a hazy sea of pain, nothing more than flashes of sounds and agony and the need to get away. Heavy bandages wrap around his wrists and he can feel the grooves in his skin from where the zip ties dug in, breaking flesh. His gaze travels to the small mirror above the sink. One eye is still swollen, a mottled bruise stretching from socket to temple, and there’s a scratch on the other side of his forehead. He catalogs each ache, each persistent flare of pain, like evidence in a crime scene and all he can think is that it should be _worse_.

It should have taken more than some broken bones and a few cuts to stop him from helping Malcolm. He should have pulled until the zip ties tore completely through skin and muscle, should have pulled until his hands were entirely useless. Should have found a way to break the chair. Should have never allowed Martin to get the drop on him in Gil’s own home. Should have fought harder to stop Malcolm from leaving with that monster.

_Let me save you this time_

Gil slams his fist into the mirror. It cracks, a spiderweb of jagged lines, and he stares down at the blood beading on his split knuckles. “Dammit, kid,” he whispers, hoarse. “Dammit.”

Squeezing his hand into a fist, he closes his eyes and focuses on the sting of pain in his knuckles, on the rage burning in his chest. Anything to stop himself from drowning in guilt and _should have’s_. Malcolm needs him to stay focused. To find him.

He’ll be damned if Malcolm spends another day with Martin Whitly.

By the time he finally manages to put his clothes on, the doctor is waiting for him in the room. Gil vaguely remembers punching the man, the crack of bone underneath his knuckles. Vaguely remembers struggling to get off the bed, to throw off the hands holding him down. Shouting that he needs to find him, he needs to get him back.

From the sour look on the doctor’s face and the way he stands a careful few feet away from Gil, his memory is a little fresher.

Gil suffers through lectures on the mobility of his hand, overnight observation, future physical therapy, on taking it easy, on the dangers of leaving before being discharged by a professional, for as long as it takes to put his shoes on with only one functioning hand. He finally gives up on tying his laces, instead just shoving them inside his shoe and hoping they don’t fall off. The doctor’s increasingly frustrated words all sound numb, far away and underwater, compared to the sound of Malcolm’s voice relentlessly echoing in his head.

_Let me save you this time_

By the time he finishes, his irritation has mounted to such levels that the doctor doesn’t dare protest when Gil discharges himself against medical advice and storms out of the room.

His mind spins as he makes his way down the hallway, combing through every bit of information he remembers from the surgeon case. Martin isn’t dumb enough to stay in New York, not with the amount of force dedicated to tracking him down. But Gil can’t remember there ever being mention of a secondary location the serial killer favored. No hideouts or suspiciously out of the way vacation areas. As far as anyone could tell, he was born and raised in New York and all his killings were committed in New York.

His teeth hurt from how hard he grinds them by the time he makes it to the waiting room to find Dani and Edrisa waiting for him. Dani paces back and forth across the narrow space between the chairs, movements sharp enough with anger and frustration to earn wary looks from the few others in the room. Edrisa has cornered a civilian by the vending machines, rapid-fire listing the detriments of sodas on the human body to her increasingly horrified captive.

Unbidden, his eyes rise to the small TV in the top corner of the room. A news station plays across the screen. Martin Whitly’s smiling face stares down at him before switching over to a broadcast of the Whitly mansion, the front door stubbornly closed.

“Boss!”

Dani’s voice pulls his attention away from the TV. He glances down in time to Dani and Edrisa quickly making their way over to him, worry on their faces. Dani is all coiled tension, waiting to snap, and Edrisa buzzes with frantic anxiety, practically bouncing in place.

“Are you okay?” Edrisa asks before cringing. “Of course, you’re not okay, forget I asked that, that was stupid.”

“Have you heard anything?” Gil asks, gesturing towards the TV. Dani tracks the movement with a frown, anger deepening at the sight of the bandages around Gil’s wrists.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before speaking. “No,” she says in that slow, careful way that means he’s not going to like what she says next. Anger tightens her words into short, bitter points. “We’ve been taken off the case.”

Gil stiffens. “What?”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave and we’re apparently too emotionally close to be of any use.” Dani’s eyes burn, a mixture of rage and fear and determination and some other emotion Gil can’t fully name. He remembers Malcolm talking to someone on the phone but was trying so hard to break free that he can’t recall what was said, but Dani looks prepared to tear the world apart. “We got kicked out after JT almost punched one of them. We’ve been here most of the night trying to piece together what we can from the news.”

“And there are absolutely no dead bodies for me to look at so-“ Edrisa freezes, eyes blowing wide. “Which isn’t why I’m here! I’m here because I care about you and I was worried, not because I was bored-“

“Edrisa.”

“Right.” Edrisa snaps her mouth closed. She lifts her hand like she’s going to pat his shoulder, seems to think better of it, and ends up doing an awkward waving motion before dropping it back to her side. “Glad you’re not dead.”

Gil’s stare sweeps across the room, lips pulling down in a frown. “Where is JT?”

“He’s upstairs,” Dani says. “Talking to-“

Jessica Whitly blows into the room in a flurry of high-heeled wrath, throwing a cup of apparently inadequate coffee into the small wastebasket in the corner. Her face is a study of righteous indignation as she rants about poor hospital accommodations, the poison they expect people to drink, and the sorry excuse of chairs they expect people to sit on. Ainsley follows close behind, waving off a bewildered and concerned looking nurse.

Everything freezes when Jessica spots Gil, and he feels his breath still in his throat. A complicated array of emotions flashes across her face as she takes him in, eyes lingering on his injuries. Shock, guilt, worry, outrage. Then the mask of anger shatters, desperation and fear streaming through the cracks, and she takes two faltering steps towards him before coming to a halt.

“Tell me it’s not true,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Please. Tell me he didn’t take my son.”

Gil can’t speak, his chest constricting. The words stick in his throat, tied down by guilt and anger and fear, but Jessica reads the answer on his face anyway.

Her face crumples and she spins away from him, presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “That bastard.” Then her voice gets louder, a broken whisper shifting into an outraged hiss. “That absolute _bastard_.”

Ainsley hovers just behind her, face drained of color, hands clenched tight in front of her chest. Gil’s never noticed before the ways Malcolm and Ainsley look alike; they’ve always seemed such opposites. But Ainsley looks at him in utter terror and all he can see is the petrified glaze in Malcolm’s eyes as he forced himself to drink that tea, tears streaming down his face.

“He won’t hurt him, though, right?” Ainsley asks, urgent, her stare flicking between Gil and Jessica. “Dad wouldn’t hurt Malcolm. He cares about him.”

“That monster cares about no one but himself,” Jessica snaps, hands dropping back to her sides.

Ainsley shakes her head, almost desperately. “No, during my interview, he snapped when I mentioned how much he hurt Malcolm. That was the only thing that made him react. He doesn’t want him hurt. He doesn’t.” Her words lose their strength and conviction towards the end, dissolving into a soft whisper, a quiet plea, as she stares at Gil. Silently begging him to agree.

He wants to. More than anything he wants to tell her that she’s right. He can feel Dani and Edrisa staring at him too, intently waiting for his answer. But he’s heard enough stories of what Martin’s done to Malcolm when he was a child to know the man will do whatever it takes to bring Malcolm to his side, to make Malcolm do what he wants, even if it means hurting him. As long as he can find a twisted way to justify it.

“What else did he say during the interview?” He asks instead and tries to pretend he can’t feel Dani tensing from his evasion. “Was there anything he mentioned to either of you that might give us some clue as to where he might have taken Malcolm?”

Jessica tosses her hands up. “I only talked to him once and he was about as frustrating and unhelpful as he always is.”

Ainsley’s eyes widen. “New Jersey! When Malcolm was talking about the camping trip da-Dr. Whitly took him on, he mentioned stopping in New Jersey.”

“Any chance he narrowed it down?” Dani asks, one eyebrow rising.

Ainsley’s hope and excitement shutters. “No.”

“This is pointless,” Jessica snaps, anger a brittle and cracking cover over her panic. “He could have taken him anywhere. They’ll never find him.”

“Not necessarily,” Edrisa says and seems to shrink when everyone’s stare snaps towards her. She coughs. “I mean, the world’s changed a lot in twenty years. There are more CCTV cameras with better surveillance, more people with cell phones constantly recording images and videos.”

“Plus,” Dani adds, gesturing to Ainsley. “With your interview out, someone’s bound to recognize him.” Her voice softens, compassion corded with steel. “We will find him.”

“Well,” Jessica mutters, her voice a sharp lash. “At least one good thing came out of that blasted interview.”

“Really, mother? Even now?” Ainsley snaps. As quickly as it came, her anger drains and she looks on the verge of tears. She buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, and after a moment Jessica wraps an arm around her, her own anger fading into exhaustion.

“You two should go back home,” Gil says and then his eyes catch on the TV, the news station still showing a shot of the Whitly mansion. “Or somewhere else where you can rest.” He holds up a hand, cutting off Jessica’s scoff. “I know it sounds impossible, but you need to rest. We’ll work on finding him.”

For a second, they both look like they might argue, and then Ainsley’s shoulders slump. She steps towards him and wraps her arms around him in a careful, gentle hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers.

He feels a lump in his throat as she steps back and starts to head towards the door.

He holds out a hand to stop Jessica before she can follow Ainsley. The sight of the bandages, a reminder of his failure, makes his chest constrict. “Jessica,” his voice is thin, rough, weighted with guilt. “I’m so sor-“

Jessica lifts her hand and places it gently over his, stopping his apology halfway through. “No. Don’t. We’ve all done enough apologizing for the things that monster is responsible for. No more.” Her eyes burn with unshed tears. “No more. Just please, bring my son back.”

But Gil knows better than to make promises in his line of work, no matter how badly he wants to, and Jessica knows better than to expect them. Her hand slips from his and she turns to follow Ainsley out of the door. He watches until the door closes behind her, guilt pressing down against him, the fear and worry on their faces seared into his mind. The whole family has been through so much. They shouldn't have to go through this too.

“So,” Dani says and crosses her arms tight over her chest. “He took him somewhere in New Jersey?”

“They think they caught him on CCTV cameras driving a white sedan, but it looks like he’s heading in the opposite direction,” Edrisa says, looking up from her phone. At Gil’s confused look, she shrugs. “I may or may not have bribed one of the officers into keeping us updated on the case.”

Gil accepts this with a tired nod. “He could be trying to trick law enforcement. Taking a round-a-bout way to throw them off his trail.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezes his eyes closed. A headache has started to throb in his temple, threatening to scatter his thoughts. He just needs to narrow it down. While Gil has no qualms with tearing the entire state apart, Malcolm doesn’t have that time.

“And he’s never mentioned camping before?” Dani presses.

Dropping his hand, Gil sighs. “Not that I remember.” He freezes, an idea sparking in his head. There’s someone else who might know. Someone who’s spent more time around Martin Whitly than anyone else in the past twenty years. “Where’s his guard? David?”

“He’s here. In the hospital.”

Gil cocks an eyebrow.

“From what we can tell,” Dani explains, eyebrows creasing. “He spent the entire day making sure no one got close to Martin’s cell. He canceled therapy sessions and consultations, made it seem like Martin was sick. He left after his shift that night and went straight home. His wife returned early from a trip as a surprise, found the front door broken open, and David bleeding out on the living room floor. They rushed him over here.”

“They haven’t caught who did it, yet, but. . .” Edrisa trails off with a meaningful look.

“Paul,” Gil growls. No doubt trying to tie up any loose ends for Martin. “Is he awake yet?”

“He woke up twenty minutes ago,” Dani answers. “JT’s talking to him now.”

Gil’s eyebrows rise, glancing between the two of them. “Doesn’t really seem like you guys are off the case.”

Dani and Edrisa share a look before Edrisa shrugs. “We decided we’d take the Malcolm Bright approach to being kicked off a case,” Edrisa says with a small, sad smile.

A bit of warmth spreads through Gil’s chest, a distraction from the anger constantly thrumming through his veins, but he still feels the need to warn them. He’s fine with losing everything if it means finding Malcolm, but that’s not something he should expect from them. “You could lose your jobs.”

“He could lose more,” Dani says, voice tight and eyes blazing with rage, and Edrisa nods beside her, uncharacteristically serious. “He’s a part of this team. I’ll be damned if we don’t get him back.”

Pride for his team swells in his chest but he sets it aside. “What room is he in?”

“215. On the second floor.” Dani glances at her phone. “The cops on guard duty called the FBI the moment he woke up. You’ve got about fifteen minutes before they get here.”

“More,” Edrisa says. “I can distract them for a little bit.”

Gil nods his head and quickly makes his way to the elevator, the growing, tight pain in his side forcing him to limp but the urgency thrumming through his veins keeping his pace faster than the stitches allow. Hope keeps trying to unfurl in his chest, no matter how hard he attempts to squash it. There’s no telling if David even knows anything, and he doesn’t think he can stand it if he hopes only for it to be dashed. Gil hasn’t even made it to the room yet when he starts to hear JT’s voice echoing down the hallway. Low and booming, twined tight to the point of snapping. It’s only because Gil has known JT for so long that he can hear the worry underneath all that anger.

There are more cops on guard duty than normal, probably in case Paul tries to finish the job. They hardly spare him a glance when he walks up; just nod at him before pointedly glancing away when he slips into the room.

JT looms over David’s bed, arms crossed over his chest, every inch of him thrumming with barely restrained anger. His head snaps up when Gil closes the door behind him and his eyes rove over Gil’s injuries. His lips tighten into a bloodless line, but he doesn’t speak, just cocks an eyebrow in a silent question.

Gil nods his head, steeling himself as he makes his way towards the bed. With each step he takes, Gil can feel his anger growing until it feels like his skin is going to shatter apart with it. He’s never met David before, just knows bits and pieces Malcolm’s mentioned in passing when he was younger. But nothing he heard made it seem like the man was capable of this.

Propped up on pillows, attached to a heart monitor and IV, with a breathing tube snaking down from his nose, David is made so much smaller by the hospital bed. His face is ashen, drained of blood, and even the slow slide of his eyes from JT to Gil is weak. His eyebrows twitch, lips curling, in a faint cringe when he sees its Gil, and his eyes snap back to the sheets twisted beneath his fingers, a muscle feathering in his jaw. But that one, split-second look in Gil’s direction was enough for Gil to see the guilt in the other man’s eyes and rage turns Gil’s vision red.

“How?” Gil finally growls out, voice strained with anger. “How could you let that monster out?”

David doesn’t look up from the blanket, fingers tightening. “He threatened my children.” His voice is a rough, weak rasp, barely audible over the noise drifting in from the hallway.

Gil shakes his head with a bitter snort. He wants to hold on to the anger roaring in his chest, wants to unleash it, to dump all the blame tearing his mind to shreds onto the man lying before him. But he finds it slipping through his fingers the more he stares at David, at the guilt and pain in his eyes. When he knows what it’s like to have your loved ones threatened.

Besides, how Martin escaped doesn’t matter. Not in the end. Gil still should have been able to help Malcolm, no matter what.

“I need you to think about what Martin’s-“

David’s already shaking his head. “I’ve already told your man, more than once. Martin didn’t tell me where he was planning on going. He just told me what he needed me to do.”

“I don’t care about that,” Gil hisses. “I want you to think long and hard. In all the years that you’ve known him, has Martin ever mentioned camping in New Jersey? Anything specific that could help us track him?”

David shakes his head. “My family-“

“We can protect them,” JT says. “We just need you to tell us everything you know.”

David frowns, forehead creasing. “I’m not sure I-“

Gil leans forward and he feels JT doing the same on the other side. “You’ve known him since he was a child,” he whispers, and David’s eyes drag from the blanket up to him. “You know what Martin is capable of.” He lets some of his own fear slip into his voice, sees a sliver of it reflected in David’s eyes. “He’s been with Martin almost an entire day. Can you imagine what that must be like?”

David closes his eyes and his throat bobs in a harsh swallow. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Apologies aren’t going to help him now,” Gil presses. “A location, a hint, anything, no matter how small or insignificant it might be, that Martin mentioned will help.”

But David keeps shaking his head, face crumpling. “I’m sorry, I don’t-“

With a frustrated curse, Gil spins away from the bed before he does anything he’ll regret. He drags his hand through his hair, taking a few steps towards the door, and pulls at the strands. Despite his best efforts, a desperate hope had been growing in his chest and he feels it crumbling away, leaving behind nothing but frustration and failure.

“A diner.”

Gil freezes and slowly turns around, hardly daring to breathe.

David stares up at the ceiling and laughs, a weak, humorless sound. “I actually felt sorry for him. Malcolm still hadn’t come by to visit again and he seemed so upset. He started talking about how Malcolm stopped talking to him suddenly when he was younger, so he took him to a cabin for a weekend. But he still wouldn’t talk until Martin took him to this fifties-style diner a little bit down the road. Said Malcolm’s eyes got as big as saucers when he saw the size of their burgers and milkshakes. By the time they were done, he was back to normal, chatting away. It sounded like he really cared about him and I-“ David’s voice slips into a soft whisper, choked with regret and bitterness. “I let him call Malcolm. Didn’t think it would hurt. He seemed so sad that I...that I even told him my son ignored me once too. That if you give them some time, they’ll come back around eventually.”

“Do you remember the name?” JT asks.

David’s forehead furrows. “JD’s, BJ’s.” He shakes his head. “Something like that.”

“Are you sure?” Gil presses.

David turns his head on the pillow to look straight at Gil, expression haunted. “It was the first time I told him about my family. I’ll never forget it.”

JT’s already pulling out his phone. “I’m on it,” he mutters, face lit up in eerie blue as he types on the screen. “There’s not a JD’s in New Jersey, but there’s a JB’s diner.” He glances up at David. “Does that sound right?”

David nods his head, eyes sliding closed. “Yes,” he whispers. “That’s the one.”

Gil and JT share a look and Gil can feel it, the energy buzzing between them, the type of adrenaline that comes from getting a location, no matter how tenuous. A cabin close to JB’s diner is a hell of a lot better than a cabin somewhere in all of New Jersey.

Some of the same stubborn, foolish hope that’s taking root in Gil’s chest shows in JT’s eyes. “I know a guy in Jersey, an old buddy from the unit, who might be able to pull some strings,” JT says. “It’s your call, boss.”

Gil answers with a nod.

The door opens and Dani pokes her head through. “Times up, we’ve got to go,” she says, and despite everything, a tight smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Edrisa poured half a can of soda on an FBI agent, they're not in a happy mood. Edrisa's waiting for us outside."

David’s eyes slide closed, his sigh an exhausted exhale through barely parted lips. “I won’t tell them you were here,” he whispers. “Just make sure you shoot the bastard.”

JT looks two seconds away from making that promise and Gil isn’t that far behind. He grabs JT’s arm before either of them can speak and pulls him out of the room.

Collette’s voice snaps down the hallway, sharp with annoyance, and they move quickly in the opposite direction, slipping around the corner before she can spot them. As much as Gil wants to confront her about kicking them off the case, he would rather do it when they’re in New Jersey and there’s less chance she can toss them in jail. Besides if they’re going to be doing things the Malcolm Bright way, they might as well adopt his ‘it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission’ policy.

Though Gil’s not sure how well the FBI will react to that.

It’s not until they’re outside in the cool embrace of late afternoon, that Dani speaks. “What exactly does Martin want with Bright?” She asks, voice tight. “Is this revenge for Bright calling the cops on him when he was a kid?”

“No.” Gil takes a deep breath and pushes past the discomfort of airing Bright’s worst fear to the team. “He’s going to try and make him like him.”

“A serial killer?” JT asks.

Gil nods. Halfway across the parking lot, he can see Edrisa huddled beside JT’s car. Already his fingers itch for the keys, body thrumming with the urge to go. He feels each passing second like a knife sliding into his side.

JT grunts, eyebrows creasing. “And when he realizes he can’t?”

Gil wishes Malcolm could hear the conviction in JT’s voice, see it in Dani’s eyes. The surety that Malcolm will never become like his father. But then he thinks about the question, a sour churn to his stomach. He knows enough about obsessive behaviors to know the object of their obsession rarely makes it out unscathed. He likes to think Martin’s feelings, no matter how twisted and far from actual love they might be, will be enough to stop him from seriously hurting Malcolm.

But for a manipulative, controlling serial killer to be met with failure after failure and not eventually snap?

Gil’s hand clenches into a fist at his side. “We’ll find him before it gets to that point,” he says, more to convince himself than them. “We have to.”

He remembers watching as Malcolm collapsed, boneless, into Martin’s arms. Remembers the rage and despair in his chest as Martin carefully settled his son onto the floor, gently cradling his head. The frustration and helplessness as Martin gathered some of Malcolm’s belongings, used Gil’s own handcuffs to lock Malcolm’s hands behind his back, and prepared to leave.

He strained his hearing, desperate to pick up the sound of sirens, and mumbled threats through the duct tape, trying to distract Martin just long enough for help to arrive before Martin could disappear with Malcolm.

Even in sleep, Malcolm looked troubled. A furrow between his brow, a frown on his lips.

Martin bent over until they were eye to eye. “Don’t worry, detective. This won’t be the last time you see either of us. You are going to be one of the first few we kill together.”

JT’s question sparks the same fear in his stomach that Martin’s words had. It’s not a fear of Malcolm becoming like Martin. Gil knows Malcolm well enough, knows the goodness in him, to know that’s never going to happen.

It’s the fear of what Martin will do if he ever realizes that himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK OUT THE NEW TAGS PLEASE  
> Implied/referenced torture (and before you get worried or excited, Malcolm is not the one being tortured). It will not actually be in the chapter, Martin just talks about it and it's heavily implied that it does happen.  
> There are also suicidal thoughts, but it's really brief. Not even a full sentence.  
> In other words, Martin Whitly is an atrocious human being and a violent serial killer who takes pleasure in causing other people physical and emotional pain, so be forewarned.

Something is wrong.

The forest thrums with it, like a pulse of its own, steadily gaining momentum with each whisper-like rustle of the trees. A steady beat that pounds alongside Malcolm’s instincts. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Water pools around his ankles, a cold brush that laps at the edges of his rolled-up pants, river-smooth pebbles cool under his bare feet. The sky is a blanket of clear blue overhead, not a cloud in sight, and birdsong twitters in the distance.

It’s peaceful. And calm. Idyllic.

But _wrong_.

“What’s the matter, city boy?” Gil teases. “Never been fishing before?”

“I prefer to buy my food from stores,” Malcolm huffs. “Like a civilized person.”

Gil’s laughter echoes across the river and some of the wrongness slips away as Malcolm smiles down at the water. Fish dart nimble and quick a few feet away, flashes of iridescent color just underneath the crystalline surface.

There are rules and tricks to this, though Malcolm can’t remember if Gil taught him or someone else. They whisper through his mind on a voice that doesn’t sound quite like Gil’s. Stay still. Blend in. Lure them in with a sense of calm before striking.

Enjoy as they struggle and thrash. Drink in the cold light of terror flashing in their eyes.

“Don’t most people do this with a fishing rod?” Malcolm asks, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

Even with his attention on one fish, orange scaled and shimmering, bold enough to swim closer to his ankles, he can hear the smile in Gil’s voice. “What’s the fun in that?”

“Just don’t blame me if we end up having to forage for berries to eat,” Malcolm retorts.

The fish drifts closer, just a few inches away from his ankle, and Malcolm strikes. Plunging his hand into ice-cold water, rough scales scrape against the palm of his hand as he grabs it. The fish struggles, splashing water into his face, and Malcolm laughs as he moves his other hand to steady it.

And freezes.

There’s a knife in his hand. Small but sharp. With a red handle worn and faded from use and age. And familiar. It pulls at something long buried in the back of his mind, twines with the sense of _wrong_ blaring like an alarm in his head.

“Go ahead, son. You know what to do.”

When Malcolm glances over his shoulder, his father stands on the shore where Gil used to be. Flannel shirt and jeans splattered with patches of seeping, dark red, a wide smile on his face. “Just like we practiced.”

Malcolm slowly looks back down, horror clambering up his throat, but it’s not a fish in his hands anymore.

The girl in the box smiles up at him, even with the knife he has pressed against the pale column of her throat, dark hair and bloodied water swirling around her face.

“Scale a fish,” she hisses, teeth bared in a wide grin.

Malcolm drops the girl and the knife with a choked shout, and both sink underneath the water, the girl’s laughter echoing in his ears. It turns cloudy and thick with red, blood spreading like smoke, until he can’t see them anymore. He stumbles back in the water, gasping, raising his shaking hands to his face. They’re covered in blood. Crimson sinks into the creases of his palm, slides down his wrist and forearms to stain his shirt.

And his own blood surges in his veins, a thrill that sends his heartbeat racing, adrenaline rising with the urge for more.

Martin’s voice whispers in his ear, filled with pride. “Just like I taught you.”

* * *

Malcolm jerks awake with a scream. It rips from his throat with raw, scraping force, echoing in the room around him. The restraints stop him from flinging himself out of the bed, cold metal jerking against his wrists with bruising force.

He slams back onto the bed with a fierce and hoarse curse, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds against his ribcage, and it is fear, he tells himself. Fear that’s making his hands shake, fear that’s making his heart beat too fast. Fear and not that sick, twisted thrill he felt in the nightmare. Not the same sick, twisted thrill he sometimes catches on his father’s face.

Slowly, he cracks his eyes open and there’s a brief moment in the muddled space between sleep and waking when he thinks he’s back in his apartment.

But reality stubbornly pushes itself through in bit-by-bit observations, the differences grating and unignorable. It’s a bright, harsh light from a naked lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling. It’s the ache of a too-thin cot underneath him. It’s the rattle of thicker, heavier chains and manacles around his wrists. It’s the pain in his leg and the brace that stretches from the back of his knee to his ankle, keeping it stiff as a board.

It’s his father standing in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a concerned frown on his face.

“Another nightmare?” Martin asks mildly.

Malcolm blinks at him and feels the familiar weight of despair settle heavy on his bones, a suffocating pressure on his chest. He doesn’t bother answering, just turns his head on the pillow to stare up at the ceiling, forcing his breaths to stay steady, slow and deep, to stave off the panic stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Martin accepts his silence with a small nod. “I apologize for the spartan arrangement. I was planning on at least giving you a more comfortable bed, but you kept waking up. I had to sedate you three times. I never imagined it would be this bad.” Malcolm turns his head to look at him as Martin crosses the room, just in time to see the look of fixated curiosity settle across Martin’s face. It’s an expression Malcolm used to see Martin wear all the time when he was a kid. When Martin would absorb himself in a new theory or procedure, when he’d spend hours methodically dissecting it piece by piece for careful study. “It’s fascinating how terror can override everything else when left unchecked.”

Martin holds out the cup of water and sighs heavily, eyebrow twitching, when Malcolm makes no move to grab it. Though his throat is parched, mouth dry enough to hurt, and his stomach clenches painfully, he can’t bring himself to drink anything Martin gives him.

“So, you just watched me have nightmares?” Malcolm pushes himself to a sitting position, awkward to do with his hands bound and his leg in a brace, and tries to ignore the knot steadily growing in his stomach. Shoving his hand under his thigh before Martin can notice the tremors, Malcolm clenches his jaw and forces himself to look at his dad.

He knows the smart thing to do would be to ignore his father. Talking to him, indulging him in his delusions, only makes things so much worse. But he doesn’t think he can just sit in silence and _think_. Not when his thoughts keep trying to pull him down into panicked despair.

Better to talk. To suss out as much information as he can. To distract Martin from whatever he has planned for as long as possible.

To give Gil more time to get here.

Martin settles himself onto a chair by the cot, carefully placing the cup of water on the floor. “I learned early on not to go near you.” He gestures to his face with a rueful smile, and Malcolm feels a spark of fierce satisfaction at the sight of a bruise darkening Martin’s chin. “Of course, they say to never try to wake someone having a night terror. But a parent can hardly stand by while their child is in pain.”

The laugh that bursts past Malcolm’s lips startles them both. It echoes harshly in the small room, hysterical and cracking, and once he starts, he can’t stop. He laughs and laughs until he can’t breathe, and it stops sounded like laughter and more like screaming.

Martin waits patiently until Malcolm drags himself back together, laughter wrangled into shuddering hiccups.

“Is that what you felt when you broke my leg?” He finally asks, hoarse voice dripping with disdain. “Like you couldn’t stand to see me in pain?”

“Oh, please, it’s hardly more than a hairline fracture.” Martin’s gaze skitters to the side, fingers drumming on his knee, movements a thin whisper of guilt. But Malcolm can never tell if it’s genuine or acting. Can never tell what Martin truly feels and what mannerisms and tells he pulls on like an actor slipping on different costumes. “Besides, disciplining your children is never easy. You’ll see that for yourself once you have kids.”

Malcolm snorts derisively. “That’s not going to happen, thanks to you and your excellent parenting skills.”

Crossing one leg over the other and settling his hands on his knee, Martin rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Here we go again,” he mutters. “Throwing blame on someone else.”

“What? My severe childhood trauma is supposed to be my fault?”

“Don’t you see?” Martin urges, leaning forward. “You’ve been trying to do things halfway, that’s why you’re suffering. Trying to satisfy who you are by immersing yourself in murders. Of course, it’s a pale imitation of what you’ll feel once you finally accept who you are.” Martin’s smile turns blinding. “Nothing compares to the rush you’re going to feel, the complete and utter control . . . I can’t wait until you finally experience it.”

Malcolm turns his glare to the far wall, clenches his jaw tight against the surety in Martin’s voice and the tight fear constricting his chest. “It’s never going to happen,” he says, pushing as much conviction into his voice as he can with doubt hissing in his mind.

“It’s the only time you truly feel grounded, isn’t it?” Martin presses. “When you’re surrounded by death and pain.”

“That’s not why I do it,” Malcolm grinds out. “I do it to stop people like you.”

“To save people, yes. As a surgeon, I felt the same draw towards saving a person’s life. It’s yet another thing we share in common.” Martin nods his head. “And yet, it’s also another type of control over a person’s life. Very addicting.”

Malcolm glances back at him, frowning. “It’s not the same.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Martin settles back into the seat, satisfied now that Malcolm’s attention is fully back on him. “Every killer has a driving force, you know that. Besides the overall rush killing brings, there’s always some other motivating factor. Something the killing accomplishes or satisfies. For our friend Paul, it provided him with the messianic mission of cleansing the streets. A little dull, in my opinion, but in some ways, it’s similar to what you do. Ridding the world of those you consider unworthy.”

“I don’t kill them,” Malcolm snaps. “I try to help them.”

Martin tilts his head to the side in consideration. “You think you can make them better?”

“Killers are made, not born.” It feels wrong, voicing the words he’s held onto like a lifeboat for so many years to the very man determined to prove him wrong, but he forces them out anyway. “There’s always a chance they can get better with the proper help.”

“So, you believe the events that happen to a person play a larger role in who they are than how they choose to react to the situation.”

“I think people and who they are are a little more complicated than that.”

“Not really. People all fall into basic categories, that’s why it’s so easy to manipulate them. Besides, thousands of people suffer through some kind of trauma in their life, and yet not all of them become serial killers.” Martin leans forward, props his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands in the space between them. “Maybe there’s some innate part of them, a fixture of their DNA or brain chemistry, that makes them who they are. Maybe they would have chosen that path regardless of what happened to them, and no matter how hard they tried to avoid it.”

Malcolm’s stomach clenches. “An interesting theory,” he says and its an effort to keep his tone neutral, steady. “But there’s no proof to back it up.”

Martin’s eyebrows rise. “Isn’t there, though? Take you for example. No matter how hard you’ve tried to ignore it and bury it, some of your base inclinations have slipped through.”

Malcolm’s mind spirals to the girl in the box, to the faded memory of a knife in his hand, blood on his skin, a body in front of him. His voice is a breathless whisper, “What are you talking about?”

“You chopped off a man’s hand, my dear boy.”

Malcolm’s hand clenches reflexively into a tight fist. He intentionally left that part out when relating the events of the case to Martin, just to avoid the giddy look that’s now on Martin’s face. But the incident ran on the news afterward, highlighted by police negligence.

“It was to save his life,” he bites out.

“Come on, now,” Martin says, his delighted smile widening. “You’re smart enough to have figured out a different, less violent way.”

“No, there wasn’t time-“

“You could have used the axe to break the chair.”

“There was no guarantee that would work in the short time frame.” Malcolm has the sideways slipping motion of the conversation careening out of his control as Martin shakes his head. Of Martin tugging the lead while he stumbles behind, desperately grasping for a hold.

“You could have tried to cut through the restraints.”

“It was too quick-“

“It was,” Martin agrees with a solemn nod of his head. “A tense, too quick moment when you had to react on instinct and your first instinct was to cause another person an incredible amount of pain.”

Malcolm’s voice feels flimsy in his throat, a wilting whisper barely audible in the space between them. “To save him.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He realizes it the moment Martin’s eyes light up.

“So, causing him grievous bodily harm that will stay with him for the rest of his life was okay because, in the end, you saved him from a much worse fate?”

Malcolm opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. He’s stuck in that moment, an axe heavy in his hands, Nico’s panicked scream in his ears, the resistance of muscle and bone, and the adrenaline surging through his veins like a rush of drugs. The adrenaline he told himself came from almost being blown up and from nothing else.

“Perfect.” Martin stands with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.”

He’s across the room, the door slamming shut behind him before Malcolm can think of a way to stop him.

Silence presses against him, as heavy and stifling as a hand over his mouth. Malcolm curses. Once. Twice. Bitter and sharp and tinged with panic. He’s not sure what his father’s planning, but he knows it’s nothing good. And he’s certainly not going to just sit around and wait for it.

Unsteadily, Malcolm pushes himself to his feet, all his weight balanced on one leg while his broken one stays stiff and useless. His gaze snaps around the room for something, anything, he can use to escape.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, there are no windows in the small room, but he’s sure Gil and the team are looking for him. Not that they’ll know where to look. He’s not sure if he made it close enough to the gas station for anyone to hear his scream.

Or if it even matters if they did.

He’s not sure if they’ll find him. He’s not sure if he’ll ever escape. He’s not sure what Martin’s planning. He’s not sure if he’s strong enough to fight him off. He's not sure-

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a thin breath through gritted teeth, dragging his mind away from his rapidly spiraling thoughts and the despair opening like a chasm in his chest. He needs to take this one step at a time. He needs to calm down and pick the problem apart piece by piece, analyze it for weaknesses, instead of looking at the whole thing.

Walking is a difficult, slow process. A shuffling stumble across the floor, with his hand braced against the wall, and pain shivering up his leg every time he puts too much weight on it. Frustration makes him spit every curse he’s ever heard by the time he finally makes it to where his chain connects to the floor.

It's sunk deep into the cement floor, the metal smooth and shiny. No sign of rust or other weaknesses. He doesn’t even have anything he could use to try and pry it apart.

He tugs at the chain halfheartedly. The link is long enough that he can almost make it to the middle of the room, if he could actually walk without leaning against the wall. Even if he could, it won’t do him much good. Besides the door, the other side of the room is empty. Nothing useful or helpful. Just blank grey walls.

Leaning back against the wall, he glances around the room. Dark and cold, smooth cement floors and walls. The lack of windows makes him think it’s underground, which probably means no one can hear him no matter how much noise he makes. If there are even people anywhere near the building, which Martin is careful enough to avoid. He wouldn’t want anyone stumbling onto his killing ground by accident.

The despair and panic start tugging at him again when he hears it. A scraping sound. Harsh and grating outside the door, and it takes a moment for him to untangle the sound of muffled sobbing twining through it. Carefully, Malcolm shifts back towards the cot, tension coiling tight in his muscles, as he stares warily at the closed door.

Two seconds later, it opens to reveal Martin dragging a man bound to a chair behind him, the legs scraping against the floor with a teeth-gritting screech. A rag covers the man’s mouth, rope around his wrists, biceps, and chest keeping him in place, and his face is red and wet with tears, crumpled with terror. The breath pushes past Malcolm’s lips in a harsh gasp. He forgot about the man from the car wreck. Forgot that he was here, in much more danger than Malcolm. Forgot that his actions put an innocent civilian right into Martin’s grasp.

Martin sets something that looks suspiciously like a torch on the ground and then Malcolm’s eyes catch on the knife in Martin’s hand and he stiffens.

“What-“ His voice comes out as nothing more than a breathless puff of air. He swallows thickly and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“ _I’m_ not going to do anything. You,” Martin declares, releasing the chair with a triumphant smile. “Are going to kill him.”

Malcolm recoils. “What? No, why would I-I’m not-“

“You are going to kill him with a quick and painless cut across his throat,” Martin continues, weighing the knife in the palm of his hand as he stalks closer. “Or I’m going to kill him.” A smile crosses his face, turned sharp by a hungry excitement. “And it certainly won’t be quick or painless.”

Panic constricts Malcolm’s chest and he shakes his head, dizzy, reeling, the room blurring into smears of dark grey. He tries to move away, but only makes it a half-shuffled step before Martin grabs his arm, firm but not hard enough to hurt, and starts pulling him towards the sobbing man.

“We’ll take small steps this time,” Martin says over Malcolm’s panicked _no’_ s and the man’s terrified cries. He places the knife in Malcolm’s hand, forces his fingers to close around it, and shifts to stand behind him, keeping him upright and in place. “One simple twist of your wrist and it’ll all be better.”

The knife settles with a familiar weight in Malcolm’s palm and time bends around him. There’s the sharp smell of pine in his nose, his father’s hands around his own, guiding the knife closer to a body as he whispers encouragement in his ear.

Malcolm blinks hard, trying to dispel the memories clawing at him. “No,” he wheezes. He tries to plant his feet firm into the ground, but can’t with only one stable leg. “No, I’m not going to.”

“You are,” Martin whispers. “No more hiding behind me, no more blaming me. You’ll see. It gets so much easier after the first time, trust me. Once you get over the nerves and the jitters, you’re going to want to savor the next one.”

Martin’s words spark against the fear Malcolm’s tried to bury. The one that rises whenever he falls asleep. The fear that Martin’s right. That all it will take is one slash across a throat and he’ll want more.

That what if the rush of adrenaline he felt after chopping off Nico’s hand was from more than a near-death experience? What if it was from causing someone else agony?

Blind terror chokes him and Malcolm tries to fight but it’s useless, with his broken leg and the chains around his wrists, with his father standing right behind him, holding him still, keeping his hands around the knife and the knife pointed forward. Memories of the camping trip crash through his mind and he feels ripped from his body. Here and there and not here and not there and somewhere and nowhere and he can’t _breathe_.

His father’s grip tightens, fingers a bruising hold around Malcolm’s hand, forcing the tremors to still.

“There’s no running away this time, my dear boy,” Martin whispers in his ear.

Malcolm’s gaze skitters to the door with the desperate hope that someone will come bursting through, but it stays closed. Beside it, the girl in the box watches him, mouth a rictus smile.

Impatience tightens Martin’s voice, sends a different kind of terror shivering down Malcolm’s spine. “Do you want to know what I’ll do to him if you don’t? You actually gave me the idea. I’ll cut him into pieces, bit by bit, see how long he lasts.”

His tone turns contemplative, clashes with the roar in Malcolm’s ears, the sobs of the man, whole body shaking in the chair. “I’ll have to cauterize the wounds and of course he won’t last as long as he would with the right medical equipment, which is a disappointment, but we should be able to get a good couple of days out of him.”

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut with a soft and broken, “No”, half plea and half sob.

“Think of it this way,” Martin whispers, soft, gentle, coaxing. “You’ll be saving him from a very long, very painful death. It’s your fault he’s here anyway. Are you going to let him suffer just to keep your hands clean?”

The man looks up at him almost pleadingly, but Malcolm can’t tell what he’s pleading for. A quick death? For him not to do it? To perform some kind of miracle and break them both out without any kind of violence?

He doesn’t know what to _do_. He tries to think of what Gil would do, of different options, or a way to drag his father off this path, but his thoughts are scattered by panic and terror. He thinks fleetingly of turning the knife on Martin, or even turning it on himself, but Martin’s tight grip keeps the knife pointed forward.

Martin guides Malcolm’s hand closer to the man’s throat and Malcolm lets him, muscles turned limp by indecision. The fear and pain in the other man’s eyes threaten to drown him, to pull him down a never-ending chasm.

The tip of the knife digs into skin and a bead of blood swells to the surface, slides down the man’s neck, and Malcolm cracks.

“ _No!_ ” He jerks back hard enough to make them both stumble, the knife falling from limp fingers to clatter to the floor. Malcolm collapses onto the ground in a heap, barely registering the pain flaring in his leg, while Martin curses and scoops the knife up before Malcolm can even think to grab it again.

“Fine then,” Martin growls, voice tight with disappointment. “You leave me no choice.”

“Wait,” Malcolm pleads, low and desperate. He reaches out to grab Martin’s leg, but Martin easily steps out of his reach. “Please, just wait.”

But Martin doesn’t stop moving towards the man and Malcolm has the sensation he felt during the lockdown, of events clipping by too fast for him to grasp, but snapping neatly into place for Martin. Of scrambling for purchase, for footing, but only sliding faster and faster out of control.

“Do you remember when I told you about the eye of the hand?” Martin smiles fondly at him over his shoulder. “It’s much more fascinating when you can see the actual nerve.”

“No,” Malcolm says, again and again, as Martin turns back to the man, struggling to stand up, to push himself across the floor on shaking arms. But no matter what he does, no matter how hard he pleads, he knows nothing is going to stop him. Martin has slipped into whatever dark place he goes to kill. Calculated, immovable, completely in control.

Malcolm stills. He thinks of the day he told his father he applied to Quantico. Thinks of Ainsley’s interview. Of Martin’s twisted face in the woods and his broken leg.

There’s one way to break through Martin’s control.

Malcolm’s eyes slip to the man in the chair, cringing back from his father and shaking his head pleadingly. It’s just like any other hostage scenario. A simple shifting of the killer’s focus from the civilian to himself. Keep the civilian alive, even if it’s just a little bit longer, because Gil is coming, he knows that just as much as he knows air fills his lungs.

Gil is coming. In the next few minutes or hours or days, Gil will be here, and the man might end up living. But only if Malcolm can drag Martin’s attention and focus to himself.

“We’re not the same, not really, and deep down you know it,” Malcolm blurts out and Martin stops with a heavy sigh. “Even after everything you’ve done, all the manipulations, all the planning, in the end, I chose to be something different.”

“That’s because you won’t listen,” Martin says with the frustrated tone of a parent trying to explain a simple concept to their child. “You never listened, even as a child.”

The Surgeon is a narcissistic perfectionist and just like any other narcissistic perfectionist, he cannot stand to be presented with his own failures. He cannot stand the idea that there is someone out there better at something than he is. Especially if that someone is a person he already hates.

“I listened to Gil just fine. When you think about it, I’m more like him than I am like you.”

Martin turns frighteningly still. Slowly, he turns around to face Malcolm, expression blank, and Malcolm presses the palms of his hands hard into the cold ground, forcing himself still. “Excuse me?” Martin says.

A cold numbness settles over him as he forces himself to keep speaking, to ignore the warning bells blaring in the back of his head. “Did you know I went on stakeouts with him when I was a kid? Couldn’t wait to learn more from him, no drugging necessary.”

He sees it then, the flare of Martin’s nostrils, the twitch of his brow, the muscles feathering in his jaw. “And it’s a wonder you can’t sleep at night, with the poor way that imbecile tried to raise you,” Martin snaps.

“We work together, solve crimes together, save people together without balancing it out with killing people. We’re a team. A _good_ team.” He feels it then, that brief moment of peace before an unstoppable disaster. The calm before he steps over the ledge. “I guess he was a better mentor than you.”

It’s like a shattering of glass, fierce and sudden and unfixable.

Martin’s face contorts with an enraged shout and he’s on Malcolm before Malcolm can blink. Malcolm slams back onto the floor, the breath pushed out of him, Martin’s hand fisted in his shirt collar. Martin is on top of him, face red, mouth open and screaming, but Malcolm can’t hear the words he’s saying over the roar of terror in his ears, over the flash of the knife slicing closer. He flings his hands up and cringes back into the floor, squeezes his eyes shut like he can block it all out.

And everything stops.

Slowly, Malcolm opens his eyes, his heaving, stuttering gasps the only sound in the room. Every inch of him is hyper-focused on the small pinprick of pain in the center of his palm, where the tip of the knife digs into his skin. A small trail of something wet slides down his palm, slips down his wrist and forearm, and he watches as Martin’s eyes track it, transfixed.

And then Martin laughs. A harsh bark of noise that Malcolm flinches back from.

Martin pulls the knife away, the tip crimson with Malcolm’s blood, lips peeled back in a harsh snarl and eyes burning with manic anger. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” Martin hisses. “Manipulating someone. Figuring out what makes them react and putting pressure on it. Setting up the pieces and watching as they stumble into place.” He shifts back with a scoff, anger folding back into a mask of cold contemplation. “That rush of adrenaline you felt, that enjoyment of controlling someone like a puppet, do you really believe that _cop_ feels that? Do you really think any decent, good person would ever enjoy that?”

Malcolm can’t speak. He’s stuck, frozen on the floor. He can’t even flinch when Martin cups his cheek. “You and I are the same, no matter how much you deny it, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make you see that. Maybe by tomorrow, you’ll be a little more agreeable.” Martin’s hand falls away as he shrugs. “Or I can just keep chopping him into pieces.”

Malcolm lunges for Martin’s arm, his leg, anything to grab, but Martin easily steps out of his reach and stalks back to the man. He drags the chair just out of the chain’s reach, and Malcolm screams and screams until his voice turns hoarse, pleas and demands to stop that go ignored. Phantom fingers brush against his neck, the cold, corpse-like touch of someone else he hadn’t been able to save, and he keeps looking at the door, panicked sobs racking his chest, keeps waiting, keeps hoping, that Gil will come bursting through, that Gil will come before Martin’s knife can cut through flesh and bone, before Malcolm’s mistakes kill someone else.

But the door stays closed, and his world breaks apart into screams, and panic, and the sharp, metallic scent of blood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not cooperate, but enjoy some hand-wavy police work.

Policework is patience.

It’s the first lesson Gil ever taught Malcolm, during the first time the kid managed to sneak into his patrol car while he was on a stakeout. When minutes of stock-still silence shattered into fidgeting in the seat, fluttering fingers reaching out to fiddle with anything on the dashboard, Gil decided to share the same piece of wisdom his training officer told him.

Policework is patience.

He watched as Malcolm stilled, one hand halfway to the police radio. His fingers curled slightly towards his palm as he carefully processed Gil’s words, lips bunching to the side before he gave a solemn nod of his head.

The stock-still silence that followed lasted a good five minutes that time before Malcolm started getting antsy again, asking question rapid-fire, and Gil couldn’t help but laugh.

If Malcolm could see Gil now, he would never let Gil live it down.

Impatience bleeds off Gil the entire drive to New Jersey. It settles in his chest like a budding scream as he sits, useless, in the passenger seat while JT drives. It’s in the tap of his fingers on his knee, the clench of his jaw, the way his eyes can’t settle on any one thing. Bouncing from pavement to trees to sky to pavement to trees to sky to-

Because Gil never told Malcolm the other truth about policework. Policework is patience, but it’s also a never-ending fight against time. It’s meticulously combing through every piece of evidence, it’s spending hours watching a door that might never open, it’s nights spent grilling the same uncooperative witness, all the while being intimately aware of every single second that passes. Because each moment of time that slips by increases the odds of a worst-case scenario. The longer it takes to solve a case, the more likely the culprit escapes or takes another victim. The more likely they end up finding a corpse instead of rescuing a civilian.

Policework is a balancing act between patience and urgency and he’s normally good at the patience part. But this time is different. So very different.

Impatience leaks into everyone else as well. Dani snaps more than once at JT to drive faster until JT grips the steering wheel tight enough it’s a miracle it doesn’t break. Edrisa keeps pointedly mentioning that she’s found much faster routes on her phone’s GPS if JT will just listen to her, until JT finally snaps that he doesn’t need two backseat drivers.

And Gil has to reign in his own frustration and anger long enough to calm everyone else down. He’s not sure how he went from having one surrogate kid to suddenly gaining three more, but he knows, wherever she is, Jackie is laughing.

Or maybe, considering the circumstances, not laughing.

By the time they make it to New Jersey, they are all strung tight with nerves and lack of sleep. JT’s friend, a short, stocky detective by the name of Robertson, meets them at the door to the police station, silently taking in their appearance with raised brows before ushering them inside and pointing them straight towards the coffee machine. Gil tries to apologize for the trouble they’re bringing to his door, but he waves Gil’s concern away with a breezy hand.

“I’d do the same for someone on my team,” he says.

And then begins more patience and waiting and standing still.

For hours- every single second a loud _tick_ inside Gil’s head- they scour through all the cabins in the nearby vicinity of JB’s diner. Cycling through lists of owners for any names that might ring a bell, any that might tie back to either the Surgeon or the Junkyard killer. Others search for any strange sightings involving a white sedan in the past few days.

It’s agonizingly slow, grueling work. It’s normally agonizingly slow, grueling work that Gil can lose himself in, push all thoughts and worries and anxieties to the background while he throws himself completely into what’s in front of him.

But this time is different.

Because he’s gotten used to hearing Malcolm’s chatter while reviewing files. He’s gotten used to how Malcolm talks his way through a profile, carefully piecing it together word by word, and the absence of his voice looms over Gil.

Because someone in the precinct is drinking chamomile tea and the scent floods his senses until it’s all he can smell, until he can taste it on his tongue. Because there’s a small child sitting on the bench in the hallway, waiting for their parents, kicking their legs out and watching officers walk back and forth, and all he can think of is when Malcolm used to wait for him in the hallway after his shift. The way his face would brighten when he saw Gil heading his way.

He tells himself that Malcolm’s not a kid anymore. He’s intelligent, skilled, and the strongest person Gil knows. If there’s anyone who can survive being with Martin for days, it’s Malcolm. He tells himself this, again and again, and tries to focus on the work in front of him. But it’s agonizingly slow, grueling work and he has no patience for it.

He’s about to tear his list of cabins into very small pieces after finding nothing new when they finally get a possible hit. A 911 call about a wreck involving a white sedan just ten minutes away from the diner.

By the time they make it to the site, the sun has started to draw closer to the horizon. Late-afternoon shadows stretch longer across the road and settle down heavy in the spaces between trees, the flash of blue police lights and golden tow truck lights bright and sharp. What little warmth was in the air slowly leaches away, leaving behind a sharp chill.

The cold mirrors Gil’s anger and frustration. Waspish and biting, stabbing at everyone’s skin even underneath all their layers of coats and sweaters. His breath plumes in front of his face, a hazy cloud of white, before dissipating, and he buries his hands into his pockets and tries to hide his wince. His hand has started to hurt more, a steady, constantly _there_ ache. No matter how still he holds it, no matter how he places it, it still hurts and he’s sure, from the way Dani keeps sliding him concerned frowns, he’s two grimaces away from being forced pain pills.

He ignores the look she burns into the side of his face and frowns at the scene in front of him while Robertson moves to question some of the officers. Two deep furrows of churned up, dark earth lead to a nondescript white sedan, the front bumper crumpled against a tree. Twenty years of knowing Malcolm Bright makes it all too easy to guess what happened and a headache starts to pound in Gil’s temple.

“He crashed the car,” he mutters. As with most things Malcolm does, Gil can’t decide if he feels pride, worry, or frustration. They all mingle together in an odd sort of resignation, into the long-suffering sigh that passes his lips.

Dani pinches the bridge of her nose while JT shakes his head, mildly bewildered.

“Of course, he did,” JT grunts.

One of the uniformed officers whistles. “Your man’s got balls of steel.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Dani mutters.

Edrisa prowls around the small wreck, bundled up in a puffy jacket and hat, peering inside the car like it’s a dead body for her to examine. Stopping by the driver’s side, her face scrunches up as she peers through the window. “There’s blood,” she calls out and Gil feels the ground tilt sharply underneath him. Glancing up, her eyes widen when she catches the look on everyone’s faces. “No, no, it’s just on the steering wheel! I’m pretty sure the driver was the only one injured.”

“Maybe start with that next time,” JT snaps as Robertson makes his way back to them.

Once he manages to get his lungs to start working normally, Gil asks, “What happened to the person who called 911?”

“He wasn’t here when emergency responders arrived. Normally, that wouldn’t seem too odd, except. . .” Robertson shares a look with his partner. “There’s a gas station a bit down the road. One of our officers went down there to see if anyone heard or saw anything suspicious. While a cashier was outside smoking, he said he thought he heard a scream coming from the woods.”

Gil stills. When the words finally fall from his lips, they are careful, measured, at odds with the roar building in his head. “A scream?”

Robertson presses his lips into a thin line and nods.

“He didn’t think to report that?” Dani asks.

Robertson shrugs. “It happened so fast; he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard anything. But the thing is-“

“It happened around the same time as the 911 call,” Gil finishes and looks back at the car. It’s better to examine the crumpled hood than to dwell on what the scream might have been a result of. Better than to let his mind spiral down all the different possibilities. “Have you found anything about the caller?”

“The call came in from the cellphone of Daniel Watson, a 21-year-old medical student. He hasn’t shown up to class today, which is apparently unusual for him.”

Gil closes his eyes while JT curses. Martin with one hostage is terrifying enough. But with two?

“There’s another gas station a few miles down the road. We might be able to get a good shot of the road with their surveillance cameras, see if a car matching Daniel’s passes by,” Robertson continues. "It's a bright blue Volvo. Can't be hard to miss."

As far as leads go, it’s decent. It’s a smaller place to look, but Gil still feels like he’s sifting through a stack of hay, searching for that one needle. And his mind keeps circling back to the scream, the scream, the scream, and his chest keeps tightening and his hand keeps hurting and his impatience keeps rising.

And the thought of going back to the station, to sit and wait and sift through more evidence, makes him want to punch something.

He glances at Robertson and the tight expression on the other man’s face lets him know that things are about to get much worse than sitting and waiting.

“I’m going to have to alert the brass to this,” Robertson says, tone apologetic. “Which most likely means the FBI getting involved. I’ll do my best to keep you guys involved, but I can’t make any promises.”

Gil nods, even as a sour taste floods his mouth. “Can we search the area while you do? Stop by a few houses, see if anyone’s noticed anything suspicious or has seen Watson’s car?”

Robertson presses his lips into a thin line. Gil knows he’s pushing his luck, asking Robertson to step out on a much too thin limb, but urgency courses through his veins, rampant and unignorable. Robertson shares a look with JT, and Gil can feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. Robertson trusts JT, and JT trusts Gil, and sometimes that trust is all it takes.

Finally, Robertson turns back to Gil and gives him a short nod. “Fine. Go in pairs. You see anything remotely suspicious; you call. And be back before it starts getting dark. If any of you die out there, the brass will never let me hear the end of it.”

Gil nods his head, but he hardly hears Robertson. His mind is miles away, on the seconds slipping by and a scream in a forest.

* * *

Five houses in and Gil wants to scream himself.

The first one was occupied by an older man, rugged and dressed entirely in flannel, who just glared at them through the screen door until they finally went away. One by a family of three who hadn’t seen anything but were very concerned about why they needed to be on the lookout. Fifteen minutes of repeated reassurances dragged by until they could leave. Two were obviously unoccupied, cold and dark and empty, the trail leading up to the houses covered in undisturbed leaves and twigs.

Each one took them farther into the forest, down longer, more winding roads that felt like overgrown dirt paths rather than pavement. Each house became more secluded than the last, and with each no they hear, Gil grows more and more certain that no one past this point will have seen anything useful. Dani and JT haven’t had any luck either, and Edrisa texts him that the search for Watson’s bright blue Volvo on any of the nearby surveillance cameras has turned up empty, and Gil feels his impatience skyrocket.

As the sunlight drains from the air, the officer assigned to work with Gil, a young man named Malone, starts to get antsy, fingers twitching for his gun with every small noise. Not that Gil can completely blame him. Very few people want to be traipsing around in the swiftly darkening woods while there’s a notorious serial killer on the loose.

But Gil can’t let another day go by without being one step closer to finding Malcolm. He can’t stop when the next house might hold a clue, when the next civilian might have seen something.

It takes some convincing, but he manages to get Malone to agree to stop at one more house, though he can tell Malone instantly regrets his decision. The trail leading to the house is more forest than road, overgrown foliage and dangling branches scraping against the side of the police car as they drive through, each screeching noise making Malone cringe, before they finally make it to the small clearing. A single-story cabin waits in the middle of the lawn, looking like something taken straight from a camping catalog. Or, from the way Malone eyes it, something straight from a horror movie.

Gil steps out of the car, tugging his coat closer as he peers around him. The growing darkness makes the forest feel smaller, trees and branches pressing in closer as the wind howling through the leaves fills the air with a thousand hushed whispers. Officer Malone tugs his shoulders up to his ears against the brisk chill and marches towards the cabin like a man heading towards the gallows, Gil trailing along behind him.

At first glance, the cabin looks abandoned. Windows dark, no car parked out front. But the more he looks, the more he picks up on minor details that prove someone lives there. The space before the front door is cleared of the leaves and dirt that litter the rest of the porch. There are fresh tire tracks digging furrows into the dead grass, leading around the side of the cabin.

Malone barrels up the old wooden steps to the porch and Gil starts to follow when a flash of something bright in the corner of his eyes snags his attention.

Gil takes his foot off the first step and backs up a few paces, peering around the corner of the cabin. There’s a large building in the side yard, set closer to the tree line. One of the doors is broken and the wind has blown it open just wide enough for him to get a glimpse inside. A few tools, what looks like a lawnmower, and a car covered in a faded tarp. Nothing too unusual, but instinct tugs insistently at him for a closer look, and Gil has been in this job long enough to know to listen to his gut.

The wind snatches at his coat as he slowly makes his way towards the shed while Malone knocks on the door. It churns the skeletal tree branches overhead and turns their shadows into writhing fingers across the dead grass. He’s halfway across the yard when a gust sneaks inside the shed and teases the corners of the tarp. Lifts them up just enough to reveal a flash of vivid blue.

Gil grinds to a halt, breath catching in his throat. There’s a chance it’s a coincidence, a chance it’s nothing at all, but there’s also a chance. . .

He takes a slow step back towards the cabin, keeping his attention on the shed and the car inside. “Malone!” He hisses, hand snaking out to grab his phone.

His only answer is a slight gurgling sound, barely audible over the wind, and the much louder, much more distinct, sound of a body hitting the ground.

Gil whirls back to the cabin, breath held in his chest. With his broken hand, he can pull out his gun or he can pull out his phone. After hesitating for a brief second, he pulls his phone out first, hits the speed dial for Dani, and then stuffs it back into his pocket and grabs his gun. If anything goes wrong, she should be able to hear it over the phone and know to come.

Carefully and slowly, keeping every one of his senses on high alert, Gil eases his way back to the front of the cabin.

The yard is empty except for Malone’s body, sprawled out on the grass in front of the steps, a pool of blood dyeing the grass dark red around him. His body spasms, that faint, gurgling sound bubbling from his lips, before, with a shudder, he stops moving. With a curse, Gil crouches beside him, keeping his head up and his eyes sweeping the yard for threats, as his fingers feel for a pulse on the other man’s throat.

It’s thready, a barely-there beat against Gil’s skin, and then gone.

With another fierce curse, Gil turns his attention back to the cabin. The front door is wide open, leading into a darkened living room where he can make out the vague shape of some furniture and nothing else. He clenches his jaw and rises. There are only two options. He can get in the car and go get reinforcements or he can go in.

Getting reinforcements would be the smart thing to do. But Malcolm is somewhere in that cabin and Gil will be damned if he lets Martin slip away with him again.

Gun up, he makes his way towards the door, scanning the darkened room beyond for any small hints of movement. He creeps into the doorway, breath light and silent through his lips, and the creak of the porch steps behind him is the only warning he gets. Something hard slams into his back and sends him crashing to the ground. Instinct has his broken hand flying up to stop his fall and pain screeches across his nerves as it takes the brunt of his weight.

Gil crumples onto the wooden floor with a pained hiss, nausea churning in his gut, vaguely aware that his gun has fallen from his hand to land who knows where. Another creak behind him snaps his mind out of its agonized haze and he rolls over onto his back, sucking in a quick breath through clenched teeth.

Martin looms in the doorway, hardly more than a black silhouette against the darkening forest, the outline of a knife in his hands. Malone’s blood falls in steady drips from the tip to pool on the wooden floor.

“I’m not a believer in fate,” Martin says, conversationally, as if there isn’t a dead body bleeding out on the grass behind him. “I don’t believe in some mysterious higher being controlling our every movement. If you apply the right amount of pressure and force, you can control anything yourself. But here I was, trying to think of ways to help my son after what you’ve done to him, and you show up. Like a cow being delivered for slaughter.”

Gil slowly rises to his feet despite the agony in his hand and the bile sharp and bitter on the back of his tongue. He keeps his eyes trained on Martin. He’s not sure where his gun ended up, but he can just make out the outline of a lamp on the table beside the couch. It’s not the best weapon against a knife, but a few hard hits against Martin’s head might be enough to level the odds.

“Do you know the most important part of getting someone to submit?” Martin prowls closer, expression blank, and Gil steps back until he hits the back of the couch. “You find a way to break through their hope. Sometimes it’s as simple as making them realize no one is coming for them. Sometimes it’s a little more complicated; it requires puzzling out who they really are.” His expression tightens, lips pressed firmer, eyebrows drawing closer together. “For some reason, he’s put all his hope in you.”

“You never shut up, do you?” Gil growls.

Martin’s lips twist into a snarl of a smile. “It’s going to be a pleasure killing you.”

They move at the same time.

Martin flings himself at Gil, knife a flashing blur in his hands, while Gil lunges to the side, fingers stretching for the lamp. The blade cuts a searing path of fire down his forearm and Gil bites back against the pain as he twists and slams the lamp against the side of Martin’s head.

The ceramic cracks and Martin stumbles back with a curse, one hand flying to his temple, but Gil doesn’t give him time to recuperate. Gil swings, putting as much force and anger behind it as he can, and smashes it against Martin’s head again, hard enough this time to break it completely.

Martin collapses into a boneless heap on the ground and Gil stands over him, chest heaving, holding part of a shattered lamp in his hands. He pulls his arm back, grip tightening around what’s left, before he stops, gritting his teeth. He wants nothing more than to keep ramming what’s left of the lamp onto Martin’s skull. Wants to smash and smash and smash until there’s nothing left.

With a hoarse roar, he flings the lamp against the far wall, pushing that urge out with a shuddering breath. Instead, he drags Martin’s body over to the radiator under a window, wincing at the strain it puts on his side, and handcuffs his wrist to it with his spare cuffs. Quickly, Gil crouches beside him and digs through his pockets, keeping every inch of him focused on Martin in case the other man wakes up. But Martin stays unconscious and Gil feels a spark of relief when his fingers close around a pair of keys, old and rusted.

Gil pushes himself to his feet with a low curse. His side hurts, a spreading fire, and he knows without looking that some of the stitches have broken. He can feel the wet brush of blood soaking into his clothes, slipping down his side. Ignoring it, and the way pain flares with each step, he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

The lock screen flashes back at him, almost too bright, and he curses at the no signal sign at the top of the screen before shoving it back into his pocket. He’s not sure how much of the call made it through to Dani before the phone lost service, but he has to hope it was enough. That her own instincts will send her this way with reinforcements. And soon.

Precious seconds slip by as he searches the room for his gun, hyperaware of every small movement Martin makes. By the time he finds it, the blood dripping from the cut on his arm has turned his grip slippery. He holds it and the keys as best as he can and slowly makes his way down the small hallway leading deeper into the cabin.

The wind howls against the walls of the building, the slow scrape of a branch against a window sending tension coiling down his spine. Every creak of the wooden walls, every shifting shadow in the corner of his vision, is someone creeping up on him.

Gil forces himself to breathe through the tension threatening to strangle his lungs and kicks at the rug running the length of the hallway. He knows the Surgeon well enough to know he’s not going to leave Malcolm restrained in one of the bedrooms, in full view of anyone who might stumble across the building.

No, he’ll keep him hidden away.

Placing the gun on the floor by his feet, he fishes the phone out of his pocket and turns on the flashlight, scanning the floor for anything that stands out. When he finds nothing, he moves into the first bedroom, forcing himself to be patient, meticulous, as he searches the floors, the walls, the shelves, for any hidden compartments or doors.

It’s not until he’s in the master bedroom, until he’s yanked the plush and musty smelling red rug off the floor that he spots the trapdoor, held shut by a padlock. Hope rises in his chest as he falls to his knees beside it, setting the phone on the ground so he can dig the keys out of his pocket. With his only functioning hand slippery with blood, it takes too long to get a good enough grip on the key, insert it on the padlock, and twist it.

When it finally clicks open, Gil almost sobs with relief, tossing the padlock to the side and yanking it open. He shoves the keys into his pocket again, grabs the phone, and falls the short drop to the floor underneath.

A long, thin hallway stretches down to his left, a few closed doors set in the wall. Gil’s nose scrunches, dread pooling in his stomach.

There are a lot of things Gil has become familiar with due to his job that he’ll never be able to unlearn. He knows the sound a bullet makes punching through someone’s skull. He knows the way a body smells after being left to decompose for days.

And he knows the smell of burnt flesh.

It lingers in the tight hallway, nauseating and stomach-clenching, mingling with the faded scent of blood, vomit, and other things he doesn’t want to think about. Gil grits his teeth against it, fingers tightening around the keys in his hand, and tells himself that Martin would never do that to Malcolm. He wouldn’t.

A loud creak echoes from upstairs, long and dragging, and Gil freezes. His eyes wander up to the trapdoor and he waits, holding his breath in his lungs. He forces himself to stay still for five seconds and when no other sounds follow, he continues down the hallway.

Unsurprisingly, the first door he tries is locked. It doesn’t take as long to find the right key and get the door unlocked. He shoves the door open to reveal a small, barren room. A single lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling casts the room in a color-leached light. A small cot is tucked in the corner and beside it, back curled against the wall and head buried in his knees, is Malcolm.

“Bright,” the name punches out of Gil’s mouth like a gasp. Even from the doorway, he can see the shivers wracking Malcolm’s body, violent and fierce tremors.

At the sound of his name, Malcolm’s head snaps up, eyes wide with too much fear and dread, his normally carefully styled hair falling into his eyes.

It takes a long moment for his eyes to focus on Gil, and then he freezes. “Gil?” His voice is a scream-hoarse rasp, raw and gutted.

Relief crashes through Gil as he takes another step into the room and then his eyes land on Malcolm’s leg, stretched out and stiff and awkward across the floor, skeletal brace keeping it still.

He thought he knew what rage was.

He thought the anger burning in his chest since that night Martin attacked him in his home was rage. But this, this thing growing inside his chest, is something entirely new. It’s a chasm opening inside of him, a black hole that sucks in every other trace of emotion. It spreads through him until he feels hollow and empty and void of anything but the cold chill that settles across him.

He should have kept smashing that lamp against Martin’s head.

Malcolm’s face cycles through different emotions as he gapes at Gil, unnervingly slow for someone normally so expressive. Shock. Disbelief. Hope.

Terror.

His mouth has only just opened in a wordless shout when something hard crashes into the back of Gil’s head.

Pain explodes in a flare of bright, white light, and Gil crashes onto the hard ground. A boot kicks him hard in the stomach, aimed right at the wound in his side, once, twice, and the air flies from his lungs in a painful wheeze. He curls into a ball, sucking in desperate gasps of air, only vaguely aware that someone is pulling the gun from his limp grip.

He finally manages to open his eyes, vision blurring, to see Martin standing over him, hair matted with blood, smile wide and fierce.

“You seem to have forgotten,” he hisses. “that I took your keys when I took your cuffs, you absolute idiot.”

His eyes flick to the side while Gil wheezes and Gil can just hear Malcolm shouting something, but the distinct words are lost under the pain pounding in his head, the agony in his side.

Martin just smiles as he looks back down at Gil, and it’s as sharp as the butcher’s knife in his hands. “Well, looks like we’re right back where we started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of universal handcuff keys makes sense for transportation reasons, but it seems like it'd cause some problems if a criminal gets their hands on a set. Anyways, there are just about two to three more chapters left in this fic, so we're in the thick of it now folks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are new tags again. Warnings for dissociation and survivor's guilt. One day the tags on this thing will be complete.

There’s a splotch of blood on the floor.

A misshapen patch no larger than Malcolm’s hand. Dried to a darker, caked color. Stark against the grey cement. He can’t stop staring at it, lost in every ripple, every curve, and the faint memory of screaming floating through his head like wisps of smoke.

His hands are shaking, rattling the chains like chattering teeth, limbs weak and tingling, and he doesn’t feel anything, just a hazy emptiness fuzzing his thoughts. Can’t tell if he’s breathing. Can’t tell if he’s sitting. Can’t tell if he dry-heaved in the corner until his stomach ached or if he just wants to, is about to, needs to. Can’t tell if any of this is real. Things keep shifting around him, a slippery slide of colors and sounds, voices and whispers, flashes of movement from empty corners.

Except for the spot of blood. It always stays the same, stubborn in its reality. It’s small and it’s nothing, it’s large and it’s everything, and he’s unmade, stitched apart at the seams by careful, surgical movements.

Dissociation, his mind diagnoses. He’s having a dissociative attack. But the realization comes to him vaguely, padded down and muffled by shock.

 _Count back from one hundred_ Gabrielle’s advice echoes in his head, drowned out by the hiss of the girl in the box _but skip twenty-four._

Curling one leg close to his chest, Malcolm drops his head onto his knee, a quick, muscle-less movement. Focuses on the feel of metal against the raw skin of his wrists, the rough press of stone against his back, the rise and fall of his chest, breath a slight wheezing rasp past his lips. Rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall.

He makes it to four before his concentration shatters, mind skipping like a broken record, and he can feel the splotch of blood widening, growing, looming. Four. Four. Four. Four fingers slowly and methodically sliced and removed. Four fingers before someone passed out from the pain. Four fingers before the Surgeon finally stopped. Four fingers before that blank, focused look faded into something tinged with wry amusement.

“We might not get much out of this one, after all,” Martin declared, painting jagged streaks of blood on his pants as he wipes his fingers across them. “Eventually, you’ll be able to tell who’s going to last longer and who’s going to die before you’ve even gotten started. It’s an extra sense you have to hone with practice, but we’ll have time to devote to that later.”

Malcolm hardly heard him. His ears were clogged with the echoes of agonized screams, his senses overwhelmed with that _smell_ , the metallic bite of blood and the acrid charcoal smell of burnt flesh. His mind was stuck on a loop, relentlessly cycling through all the ways he could have stopped this from happening. He shouldn’t have crashed the car. He shouldn’t have made his father angry. He should have dragged a deep smile of crimson across the young man’s throat and spared him from this agony instead of sparing himself from the guilt of blood on his hands.

The thoughts and accusations looped through his head, again and again and again, until a gentle hand nudged his chin up and he found himself blinking foggily at his dad’s face.

“You are strangling yourself with that faux guilt, my boy,” his father whispered and with the light behind his head, wreathing his face mostly in shadow, he looked almost sorrowful. But then he tilted his head and the glide of light and darkness across his face shifted his expression from sorrowful to malicious. “The sooner you realize that the less painful this will be.”

But it’s not painful for Malcolm, not really. It never truly is. His father carved through twenty-four people and Malcolm escaped with nothing more than a few buried memories and bad dreams. His father carved a young man’s fingers from his hand and Malcolm suffered nothing more than a hurt leg and a minuscule cut on the palm of his hand. People keep getting hurt and he keeps coming out unscathed and he’s always helpless to stop it. Or worse, he’s directly responsible for it.

Like the young man. Like the girl in the box. He’s not sure what happened to her, but he’s sure him stumbling onto her quickened Martin’s timetable for killing her. She might have lived a few more days, might have gotten closer to rescue, if he hadn’t screamed loud enough to catch his father’s attention. She might have lived entirely if he had just _remembered_ , instead of waiting who knows how long before calling the police.

Even when he’s not the one holding the knife, he still gets blood on his hands.

The door creaks open and Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut tighter, pressing his forehead harder against his knee. Martin must be back from getting Malcolm food and water. It’s childish and futile, to think that if he closes his eyes and stays very still then maybe the monster won’t see him, but he doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want it all to start over again. Doesn’t think he has the strength to resist anymore.

“Bright.”

Malcolm’s head snaps up before he can think better of it, shock coursing through his limbs. At first, all he sees is a shadowed silhouette in the doorway before they take a step forward and it’s Gil, standing there, staring at him in equal parts shock and relief.

“Gil?” His voice comes out as ragged and unstitched as he feels, rough and hoarse against his scraped throat. He almost expects Gil to disappear, to slink back into the shadows of his mind like every other hallucination, but Gil takes another step farther into the room, farther into the light, and Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat.

Blood stains the side of Gil’s sweater in a blooming, soaked patch, and seeps down the torn sleeve of one arm. His broken hand is covered in a thick cast, the bruises on his face stark, but starting to fade, dark purple melding into yellow-green. Malcolm blinks, and blinks, but Gil’s still there, still standing, still _real_ , looking at Malcolm with what appears to be increasing rage and Malcolm feels hope spike through him with breathtaking force.

A darker shape detaches from the doorway and his hope shatters. Panic sears through Malcolm, his mouth opening in a scream of warning just as Martin slams the hilt of his knife against the back of Gil’s head and Gil crashes to the floor. With another voiceless cry, Malcolm pushes himself to his feet as Martin kicks Gil once, twice, before reaching down to remove his gun from its holster.

Martin stands over a groaning Gil, blood matting his hair into red clumps, his eyes wide and manic as he hisses, “You seem to have forgotten that I took your keys when I took your cuffs, you absolute idiot.”

There’s the reality-warping sensation of déjà vu, everything twisted on its head, terror burrowing deep into his skin. Malcolm limps forward as far and as fast as he can until the chains jerk him to a stop with a rattle. His vision blurs, the breath squeezed from his lungs in one, shuddering gasp. “Stop,” he rasps, desperate. 

Martin spares him a quick, dismissive glance before looking down at Gil. “Well, looks like we’re right back where we started.”

The ground lurches underneath Malcolm, desperation constricting his chest. One thing he's learned being the son of the Surgeon is that it doesn’t matter how far he’s fallen, how close he’s been dragged to the breaking point, things can always, always get so much worse.

Gil pushes himself up onto his elbows, an aborted wince turned into a snarl as he glares up at Martin. “You won’t get away with this,” he snaps, voice breathless and tight with pain. “I called for backup-“

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, detective. Reception isn’t the greatest out here. No one is coming.” Martin smiles, a sharp-edged movement. “Honestly, this turned out better than I hoped. It was a mistake leaving you alive, but we can remedy that now.”

“No,” Malcolm whispers. “No, you don’t want to do this, please.”

“No, this is good. It’s a fitting way to cut off your ties to this charade of a life you’ve been clinging to,” Martin says, and his voice tangles into a snarl as he looks back at Malcolm. “He is, as you said, your mentor.”

Malcolm’s taunting words, what seemed like such a good idea at the time, wrap around his throat like a noose, and the strength leaves his leg, threatening to dump him onto the floor. “No, please, I’m sorry, I’ll-“

Martin raises both eyebrows with a scoff. “Do whatever I want? You promised that before, son, and we both know how that turned out. No more. No more hope, no more holding on, I see that now. Like a broken bone that’s healed wrong, you have to break in order to be fixed.”

Martin turns back to Gil, who’s still struggling to push himself to his knees, wobbly and weak with pain and the blood dripping from his side and arm. Ignoring the pain burning down his leg, Malcolm pulls frantically against the chains, straining against them as Martin kicks Gil again and this time Malcolm swears he hears something crack. A threadbare sob breaks past his clenched teeth as he pulls and pulls until he can feel the strain tearing at his skin, can feel the blood supply cutting off from his fingers, and he knows it’s still not good enough.

“ _Stop_ ,” he begs. He’s said the word so many times in the past few hours it has no meaning anymore. It’s just a sound, just a noise, just a feeling, an aching, terrified desperation that tears its way with bloody claws up his throat. He’s going to have to watch. He’s going to have to watch as Martin cuts and cuts past four fingers and he’s not going to be able to stop it and Gil is going to-and he _can’t_ -

Martin stops.

He glances over his shoulder at Malcolm. Takes in the way he’s pulling hard enough against the chains that the metal’s tension is the only thing keeping him upright. Takes in the panicked stutter of his breath, the tears burning in his eyes.

“No,” Martin says softly, after a long moment of weighted silence. “That won’t work.”

It’s the one thing Malcolm’s been desperate to hear and yet the way Martin says it, flat and emotionless, fills him with dread, sharp and acidic as bile on the back of his tongue. Martin starts walking back towards him, leaving Gil a crumpled, gasping heap on the floor, and Malcolm shifts back a half-step, not daring to take his eyes off Martin. Martin’s looking at him in that focused, considering way again, surgically peeling back the layers to prod at what lies beneath, and unease skitters across Malcolm’s skin.

“I could kill him, but that wouldn’t make things any better, would it? No, killing him would just turn him into some kind of martyr in your head. An ideal to aspire to.” Martin stops a step away from Malcolm and tilts his head, expression pitying. “Because you believe he actually cares for you.”

Malcolm doesn’t speak, hardly dares to breathe. Every inch of him is coiled tight and still, as if one small movement might send his father and the knife back to Gil.

“Oh, my boy, I don’t blame you. It must have been so hard growing up without your father. As a child, you latched onto the first person you could, no matter how inadequate a replacement they were.” Martin reaches out a hand and gently brushes back a lock of Malcolm’s hair, and Malcolm stiffens against the revulsion curling in his stomach. “But you know, deep down, that he only cares for who he thinks you are. That’ll all change once he truly sees you. Then you’ll finally know, I’m the only one who loves you.” His lips curl into a soft smile as he pats Malcolm’s cheek. “It’s time for the two of you to face the truth.”

Martin’s words press on the old fear Malcolm’s had since childhood, the insecurity and worry, and he flinches back before he can stop himself. “What are you talking about?”

Martin glances back at Gil, lips twisting derisively. “We’re going to play the same game, just change the stakes a little. You kill our little friend from the car crash. You do it the way I tell you to, nice and slow, and Arroyo is going to watch. Or I’ll kill the cop.”

It always, always gets worse.

Malcolm’s stomach lurches, dread spreading in a wave of ice across his veins. His lower lip trembles, tears burning hot against his eyes as he closes them and gives a weak shake of his head, lips parting in a silent, breathless _no_.

A hand clamps with bruising tightness on his chin. “Look at me,” Martin demands, voice corded with steel and threats, and it’s a struggle, but Malcolm drags his eyes back open, blinking past the tears blurring his vision. “Who’s going to live?”

The answer is horrible in its simplicity. Monstrous in the way it rises to the tip of his tongue with no thought.

Gil. It’ll always be Gil.

Even if it means he won’t look at Malcolm the same way again. Even if it means ruining the one steady force in his life. Even if it means tearing himself into a thousand small pieces, fully embracing every fear and nightmare raging in his mind, it’s better because Gil will live.

Malcolm will become the monster he’s been running from if it means Gil’s blood will never be on his hands.

His lips move, though his throat is too tight to push any sound out, but Martin reads the answer on his face anyway. His lips press into a thin, satisfied smile, and his hand falls away from Malcolm’s chin. “Very good.”

Behind Martin, Gil makes a noise, part protest, part pained groan, but Malcolm can’t bring himself to look at him. It is safer to look at the third button on Martin’s shirt than to look at the disappointment and disgust no doubt on Gil’s face. Selfish, maybe, to want to cling to this moment before Gil realizes just how alike his father he is, but he will cling to it, as hard and for as long as he can, until it’s ripped away from him.

Martin steps away and Malcolm’s stare drops to the floor, to the bloodstain, large and fathomless and threatening to swallow him whole. Pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, Martin’s voice slips back into its usual, jovial tone. “Now, let's get our esteemed guest settled before we start-“

There’s a rustle, a low grunt, and Gil slams into Martin. The two crash into the far wall hard enough to shake the room, but Malcolm’s attention catches on something else. An object fell from Gil’s hand when he barreled into Martin and landed with a clatter just a few feet away from Malcolm.

Keys.

Malcolm’s head snaps back to the two men as Martin shoves Gil down with a snarl. Fury twists Martin’s face. It’s the same look he had when Malcolm goaded him, a blinding, all-consuming rage, but this time he won’t stop. He won’t pull back. Malcolm knows this as surely as he knows the heartbeat pounding against his ribs. He’ll forget the game, he’ll forget the stakes, and he won’t stop.

Malcolm drops to the ground, his broken leg nothing compared to the panic and urgency surging through his veins, and stretches as far as he can for the keys. The manacles pull at his wrists, a tearing, burning pain, stopping his fingers an inch away from the keys. He curses, sharp and bitter and frantic.

He’s hyper-aware of every noise coming from the other side of the room, every sickening thud of flesh against flesh, every grunt and curse, every sound of pain urging him to look until he’s so twisted tight with tension he feels he might shatter. Clenching his teeth and forcing himself to ignore them, he turns around and stretches out his good leg, capturing the keys between the toe of his shoe and the floor and slowly, carefully dragging them towards him until he can grab them.

He almost sobs in relief at the feel of metal against the palm of his hand. His hands shake as he tries to shove the first key into the lock. It doesn’t fit. He discards it for the next, cursing when it won’t slide in either. Panic rises up in him, a choking force, his hands shaking worse and worse as he grabs the next key.

A grunt, a cut-off shout of pain, and something skitters across the floor in front of him. Martin’s knife.

Malcolm freezes.

There’s blood on the knife. A thick stream of it streaking across the floor where the knife slid across and

Malcolm

Feels

_Nothing_

A careful, quiet numbness settles over him, smothering any emotions or sounds, as Malcolm stares, frozen at the bloodied knife. He knows he only has to turn his head an inch to see who’s blood it is, to see who was injured and how badly, but he can’t move. Stuck in this moment of careful not-feeling, not-thinking, not-daring.

A scream, tattered and agonized, slams him back into focus. He jerks his head towards them, eyes wide, in time to see Martin lift his boot off Gil’s broken hand. Gil pulls it to his chest and curls around it with a pained whimper, the new wound in his shoulder-so so _close_ to his neck and Malcolm can’t _breathe_ \- leaking blood down his side. Martin’s infuriated gaze snaps up to Malcolm and zeroes in on the keys clutched tight in Malcolm’s hand.

“Malcolm,” Martin barks out the warning, voice threaded with a heavy undercurrent of violence that freezes Malcolm in place. But then Martin starts moving towards him and panic clamps like a vice around Malcolm’s lungs.

His shaking fingers aim for the lock, miss, metal scraping against metal in a too-loud _screech_ , and his breath shudders out in a chest-heaving sob. He shrinks back as Martin gets closer, voice booming in another shout, shaking fingers struggling to slide the key into the lock and it fits and with a desperate hitch of breath, he twists the key.

The chains fall to the ground with a loud rattle and Martin tracks Malcolm’s gaze from the chains to the bloodied knife just a few feet away.

They both lunge for it.

Screams tangle in Malcolm’s head as he reaches, the present and past merging. Gil’s scream and the young man’s scream and his own scream and the scream of a ten-year-old boy staring at a body stuffed in a box and his hands close around the handle of the knife- _here_ and _there_ and _then_ and _now_ \- and he puts every last bit of strength into his good leg for one last twisting movement as Martin looms over him, face twisted and red.

And Malcolm knows this intimately.

He knows the mathematics behind it. The force and trajectory of a knife piercing flesh, how the wounds correlate to height and position, how to read the story in blood splatters. He knows how it feels. Knows it through a memory of an axe chopping through a wrist, and some other, lost memory relentlessly clawing its way to the surface day by day. He knows this, but it’s still a shock when the knife slides almost smoothly into his father’s stomach.

They stare at each other, inches apart and held together in a single moment of shock, neither breathing, until Malcolm feels the first hot brush of blood against his fingers. He recoils, but Martin’s hand clamps around his wrist, stilling his fingers around the blade and keeping him still.

And it’s just the two of them, the knife, and the blood dripping between them.

“You like it, don’t you?” Martin breathes, fascination more than pain slipping across his face. “The control. Knowing all it takes is one twist of your wrist and you can end someone’s life.”

Malcolm can hear Gil groaning, can hear the rustle of fabric against concrete, but he can’t look away. Transfixed by the gleam in his father’s eyes, by the blood seeping hot onto his skin, and the anger blooming in his chest as the truth of Martin’s words ring sharply in his ears.

Martin leans forward with a small, pained gasp, eyes lighting up with victory like he can see the truth burning on Malcolm’s face. His tone is soft, contemplative, when he whispers, “My father was the first person I stabbed, too.”

And Malcolm realizes the fall isn’t the worst part. The scrambling, helpless plummet through the dark. The not knowing and the lack of control.

It’s the inevitability of impact.

An abrupt stop. A shattering jerk. The surety of the ending. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, this is where he’s always meant to end. With a knife in his hands, blood on his skin, and a rage rage _rage_ burning dark and vicious through his veins.

Martin grins, teeth a bloody smear. “My boy.”

All the pain and the panic and the fear of the last few days, of the last twenty years, funnels into a churning, violent desire to twist the knife deeper. It swells inside of him until it’s all he can feel, the rage and the bloodlust and the need to end it all for good, his lips curling with it into a snarl. His fingers tighten around the handle of the knife when a flicker of movement just behind Martin catches his attention. Gil, getting shakily to his feet, one hand braced against the wall, eyes wide and worried and the sight snaps through Malcolm like a jolt.

The rage washes away under a wave of absolute horror. Malcolm releases the knife with a low, tattered whine and he scrambles backward, crumpling to the floor the same time Martin collapses. He pushes himself back as much as he can until his back cracks against the wall, as far away from Martin and the pool of blood steadily growing across the floor. His hands won’t stop shaking, covered in blood, and his breath rips out of him in ragged, frantic, too-thin heaves.

Someone keeps calling his name, again and again, hands cupping his face, running over his shoulders, someone asking if he’s okay, if he’s hurt, telling him to breathe, but they all come to him as if from underwater. Hazed and fuzzed and distant, lost underneath the pride in his father’s voice, the image of his bloodied smile.

_My boy my boy my boy_

Gil wraps his arms around him, tight, and twists them both around so Malcolm can’t see his father or the pool of blood anymore. But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s still there. Even under all the horror and the fear and the nausea, he feels _anger_. A fury that tells him he should have gone all the way, he should have torn his father's life out of his body with one sharp slash. 

In the end, he really is his father’s son.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, Gil hugging him and whispering a litany of _it’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s okay now._ Malcolm can hardly hear him over the roar in his ears. Can hardly hear the thunder of bootsteps overheard, the sound of the door being kicked in as police officers and FBI pour into the room.

He sees nothing and he hears nothing. He is shattered and broken at the bottom of a drop and all he feels is the blood, heavy and thick, on his hands.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated again but that should be the last time.

Malcolm doesn’t speak.

Gil holds him hard, both of them crouched in the corner of the cabin’s basement, his own heartbeat and ragged breaths a roar in his ears. He keeps his eyes trained on Martin’s prone body over the top of Malcolm’s head. Not trusting that the other man won’t rise to his feet the moment Gil takes his eyes off him, despite the pool of blood growing beside him. He holds Malcolm tight and keeps asking if he’s okay, keeps telling him that he’s okay, but Malcolm doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Even when the police and FBI swarm into the room in a wave of noise.

Malcolm stays still and limp and silent in a way that sends panic screeching through Gil’s veins. It reminds him too much of those first few weeks after Martin’s trial, when Malcolm pulled back into himself. But this seems so much worse.

“ _Boss._ ” Dani is beside them in an instant, eyes wide. She glances over him, expression tightening. “You good?”

“I’ll live,” Gil rasps. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s sure, once the adrenaline has faded, the high of fear and fury, he’s going to feel every single scrape and bruise and gash and crushed bone. But he is still breathing and right now his number one priority is the profiler who still hasn’t reacted to a single thing.

Dani’s attention shifts to Malcolm. With a worried furrow in her brow, she scans him, frantic, double and triple-checking that all the blood on his clothes and skin doesn’t belong to him. Her hands hover, but she is slow and careful to touch him, fleeting, light brushes of her fingers across his shoulders, his arms, careful to broadcast her approaches even when Malcolm doesn’t react.

Her hands freeze when she spots the brace on his leg and a pained anger twines through her voice when she repeatedly asks if he’s okay.

But Malcolm still doesn’t speak. His eyes don’t even track her movements, instead locked hazily onto a distant spot just over her shoulder.

Gil tries to convince himself that it’s better than before. The distant, zoned-out look is better than the utter horror on his face when he stared at his father, the way the knife fell from his limp hand and that low, agonized whine dragged past his lips. But he doesn’t fully believe that. There’s this terror spinning in the back of his mind, that this is how Malcolm’s going to be from now on. Locked forever inside of his own mind, all because Gil wasn't fast enough. But Gil jerks his head away from that thought. Malcolm is the strongest person he knows. He'll survive this. 

_He will_.

He glances behind Dani to see JT’s attention on someone else entirely. The detective stares down at the Surgeon, face carefully unreadable. JT’s normally not a man prone to anger. It’s one of the many reasons Gil first considered him for the team. He’s levelheaded. Cool in a crisis. Easy enough for him to put a case and procedure above his own personal feelings.

But he looks two seconds away from leaving the Surgeon to bleed out on the floor.

JT slowly drops into a crouch beside Martin, one hand on his gun, and presses two fingers against Martin’s neck. Seconds stretch into years before he glances up and locks eyes with Gil. The breath freezes in Gil's lungs, a hope he doesn't care to look at too closely unfurling in his chest.

“There’s a pulse,” JT finally declares.

Instinctively, Gil’s arms tighten around Malcolm, but if Malcolm heard JT, he shows no sign of it. Whether that’s a good thing or not, Gil doesn’t know.

JT glances at the doorway where Robertson stands, his clothes covered in what Gil can only assume is Officer Malone’s blood. His lips press into a thin, bloodless line before he pulls his phone out and calls for another ambulance to be sent to their location.

It’s selfish, maybe, but Gil is infinitely grateful that the decision wasn’t his to make. He’s not sure he would have called for one. Part of him thinks he would have left Martin to bleed out and rot in this cursed cabin.

“Can you stand?” Dani asks, pulling his attention away from the serial killer.

Gil nods his head, regrets it when a woozy sensation swoops his stomach. But he shoves it aside and pushes himself to his feet, releasing Malcolm long enough to steady himself against the wall.

Malcolm erupts into motion.

He jerks to his feet with a ragged gasp, eyes wild and wide, startling shouts from the other cops in the room. Gil hardly has time to register the blood draining from Malcolm’s face, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, before Malcolm crumples. And Gil is lunging and the world is tilting and people are shouting and Dani catches Malcolm and JT catches Gil.

Dizziness buzzes through Gil like static. His limbs don’t seem to want to cooperate, threatening to collapse under him whenever he puts too much weight on them. JT keeps him standing and he’s saying something, but Gil can’t hear him under the weak haze that’s fallen over his mind, the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision. _Lost too much blood_ , he thinks and for some reason feels the urge to laugh.

He’s outside before he fully realizes it. The yard is a kaleidoscope of too bright lights, the harsh blue of police vehicles and the alarming red of ambulances. Blinding and flashing enough that they send a sharp pain spiking through his temple.

A medic takes him from JT and tries to guide him in one direction, urging him onto a stretcher, but Gil stumbles past him, despite the pain and the wooziness, the way everything around him is tinged with a sense of unreality, blurring and blending together with each blink. He ignores the man calling for him, searching the crowd of police and FBI prowling through the yard until he spots where Malcolm’s stretcher is being loaded onto the back of an ambulance.

It’s only through sheer force that he makes it across the yard without collapsing again. He falls into the back of the ambulance more than climbs into it, grunting when his side and shoulder flare into agony.

The paramedic startles, spinning around to face him with an alarmed, “ _Sir!”_

Gil lifts his head high enough to level a weak glare at the man. “I’m riding with him,” he huffs, dragging himself inside. His hand is still covered in blood, fingers leaving streaks of it behind him on the side of the ambulance.

The man opens his mouth to protest but Gil cuts him off with a fierce growl.

“I am _not_ leaving him.”

He’s not sure if it’s because he’s covered in blood and looks like he’s on the verge of passing out right there anyway, but the medic finally nods. Quickly securing Malcolm before moving to guide Gil onto the bench.

Dani and JT appear in the doorway, wearing equal expressions of worry and both looking like they’re about to climb into the back of the ambulance too.

The medic shoots them an exasperated look, holding up a hand to stop them. “Absolutely not, neither of you can fit back here.”

For a second, it looks like they might argue, but Dani finally nods her head.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital,” she says. 

"We'll make sure to call his family on the way," JT adds.

Gil nods his head before lying back on the bench while a medic examines the wound on his shoulder and side. He turns his head enough that he can keep Malcolm in his line of sight as the engine rumbles to life.

It should feel like a victory, he should feel relief. The ordeal is over, Martin Whitly is back in custody, on the verge of death even, and they made it out alive. But all he can think of is the dead-eyed glaze in Malcolm’s eyes, and dread settles as heavy as a stone in his chest.

* * *

For the second time in a few days, Gil discharges himself against medical advice.

He has new stitches in his side and shoulder, a new cast on his hand, and more medical advice and warnings he hardly paid attention to floating around in his head. He knows it’s not the wisest decision, after losing so much blood and with his hand throbbing, and he knows it’s the exact type of reckless behavior he would lecture Malcolm against, but there are things he has to know. Things he needs to find out if he ever hopes to get rest again.

It takes a while to track down Robertson, longer still for Robertson to get him the answers, and then Gil’s feet, feeling as heavy as lead, carry him to Malcolm’s room. His headache has grown worse, a pounding, nauseating throb against his skull, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to curl up on his couch at home and sleep for days.

Dani, JT, and Edrisa wait in the hallway outside Bright's room. Edrisa sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with what looks like a Sudoku puzzle, while Dani and JT stand at attention with their backs against the wall. They give him a nod, tinged with relief at seeing him standing, as he slips inside the room.

It's dark enough that at first Jessica is nothing more than a darker silhouette on a chair, and quiet enough that he can hear rain tapping against the window. Malcolm is stretched out on the bed, attached to an IV drip and so very, very still. It sends unease tightening Gil’s chest. Malcolm Bright is never still, not even in sleep, and Gil has the sudden urge to shake his shoulders until he wakes up, just to be sure.

“Your team wanted to stay in here,” Jessica says in lieu of hello, voice quiet enough to not wake Ainsley, curled up and asleep in the chair beside her. “They wanted to be here when he woke up, but I wasn’t sure he would want them to see that.”

Gil moves to stand beside her, fighting off a grimace at the ache in his side and shoulder. “They already know about his night terrors.”

Nothing changes in Jessica’s expression. It’s only because Gil has known her for so long that he can read the slight twitch of her fingers in her lap, the carefully blank expression, as the worry and anger that it is. “Something tells me these are going to be much worse.”

For a moment, they don’t speak, surrounded by the sound of hospital machinery, the muffled conversations floating in from the hallway. He lets the silence build between them, lets them live in a moment where things can’t possibly get worse, before he has to tell her that it has.

“The surgeons were able to save him,” Gil whispers and almost wishes the sounds of the hospital will drown his words, scatter them into meaninglessness. “They expect him to make a full recovery.”

Jessica doesn’t look at him. She keeps staring at her son, such a still, thin figure under a white sheet, her face carefully neutral as her fingers tighten and tighten into a knot on her lap. “Bastard,” she whispers.

Gil doesn't answer, though he can feel anger churn hot in his chest. He's not sure if he should be grateful or not. Martin Whitly is still alive, still capable of inflicting so much damage, but at least Malcolm won't have his father's life on his hands.

Living or dying, only Martin Whitly can make both options seem like a win in his favor.

* * *

He wakes to nothing. A steady, hollow emptiness carving a hole in his chest.

Malcolm blinks up at the darkened ceiling. Whatever dream he had clings to him like a cobweb, flimsy and unsubstantial, hazy flashes of blood and his father’s face. A nightmare or a memory, it doesn't matter. They both seem to be the same nowadays. But there’s none of the usual fear bursting from his mouth in the shape of a scream. There’s none of the anger or the hate or the frustration or the confusion. There’s just a carefully cultivated nothing. A thin layer of ice over the surface of a lake, a barrier between air and a bottomless, cold drowning.

Slowly, he turns his head and glances around the room. There’s Ainsley, asleep with her head propped against their mother’s shoulder, blonde hair bright against Jessica’s dark coat. Jessica herself, the one who simply refuses to sleep anywhere under five stars and on anything that’s not a high-end memory foam mattress, asleep on an uncomfortable chair.

He’s pretty sure he can hear Dani and Edrisa’s voices drifting in from the hallway, JT’s deeper tone breaking through every now and then. But their voices are too soft, too muffled, for him to distinguish separate words.

There’s a white, ceramic mug on the table beside his bed, like one of the generic ones they have at the station. It’s crammed full with lollipops, their wrappers bright and colorful even in the darkened room. While there’s no note, he knows it’s from the team.

His mind catalogs all these things slowly, through a haze, and he knows he should feel something. Something more than the exhaustion weighted through his bones like concrete. But emotions, happiness, relief, gratitude, break apart like ash whenever he tries to conjure them.

“It’s almost sad, really, how much they care.”

Malcolm keeps his eyes trained on the lollipops, even as his hand trembles on the bedsheet. In the space between a blink and a breath, the skin of his hands feels wet, covered and dripping in blood. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know if he’ll see a hallucination of his father looming over the bed or see nothing and discover that Martin’s voice has become so ingrained in his head that some of his thoughts will always sound like him.

“It’ll be utterly delightful seeing the look on their faces once they’ve realized how much you’ve fooled them into thinking you’re one of them. It’s one of the things I enjoyed the most, besides the actual killing, of course. Watching the horror, the shock, the denial on their faces when they realized I was actually going to kill them. It has its own little thrill. But you'll see that for yourself soon enough, won't you, my boy?"

Malcolm slowly closes his eyes, willing sleep to drag him back under. He knows the nightmares are waiting for him, lurking in his subconscious, ready to sink their claws in deep. But his father is here when his eyes are open and he's there when they’re closed. There’s no escaping him anymore, not when they are one and the same, and Malcolm is just tired. So very, very tired.

* * *

There’s a trick he used when he was younger. On the days when the world grew to be too much, his emotions churning, rapidly changing and shifting and growing, too loud noises in his head. When thinking about certain things for too long threatened to chip him apart piece by piece.

He would break the things around him into their basic parts. Distance himself and examine everything through the lens of emotionlessness. The sky is blue. His father is a monster. The grass is green. His father killed people. His house is big.

Just bare-bones facts. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Just facts.

.

.

.

These are the facts.

He has a fracture in his tibia. They've replaced his father's brace with a cast. It will heal in a month or two.

He’s dehydrated. Suffering through withdrawals. Nothing an IV drip and a steady reintroduction to his meds won’t fix.

He’s starved. He should eat slowly. Easy food, light, nothing heavy until he works up his strength.

The doctor never says the word _lucky_ , but Malcolm can read it in his expression anyway. He does, however, pat Malcolm’s shoulder and says that he is alive with a careful, delicate gentleness. 

There is a victory in living. People always like to say that. That each breath you drag into your lungs is a win against whatever plagues you. But none of this feels like a victory to him. Every breath Malcolm takes feels more like a win for his father. Every breath, every second, is a heavy weight pressing against his chest, dragging him down down down-

But that’s not a fact. Malcolm pulls himself away from that spiral, clamps down hard on whatever emotions are struggling to rise in his chest, and ignores the look of concern on his mother’s face.

.

.

.

These are the facts.

The gashes on Gil’s shoulder and side have been re-stitched. Nothing vital was harmed. They will leave scars.

He has a concussion.

While the cast took the brunt of the hits, his hand is still wounded enough that they’re considering surgically placing metal rods inside to support the bones while they heal.

They’re not quite sure how limited his range of movement will be. Some of the fingers won’t work the same ever again.

(and he is not feeling, he is not feeling these are just facts)

.

.

.

These are the facts.

The young man, Daniel Watson, is alive.

He lost four fingers on his left hand. They can’t be reattached.

He’s suffering from a severe infection, delusional, feverish, and hysterical anytime he swims back to consciousness.

The doctors, however, are optimistic that he’ll survive.

.

.

.

These are the facts.

His father is alive.

.

.

.

Malcolm feels nothing.

.

.

.

From the moment the doctor finishes examining him, he is never alone. His mother, Ainsley, and the team all crowd into the small room, filling it to the brim with so much noise that it drains what little strength he has. 

Dani is the first to burst in. She hugs him tight before pulling away with an awkward shrug, one hand rubbing the back of her neck. JT claps him gently on the shoulder and mumbles something about being glad they don’t have to look for a new consultant, which seems about as close to a hug as JT will get. Edrisa moves to hug him, before backing up, before moving to hug him again, before backing up, until he finally nods his head and she flings her arms around him in a hug that is tight and breath-crushing.

Ainsley takes up residence at the foot of his bed, talking about projects and events at an almost frantic pace. Jessica flits about the room and seems determined to get him every single pillow in the hospital to make up for the mediocre padding on the bed. The team talks about cases (Dani), the bland hospital food (JT), and cadavers (Edrisa), all of them delicately dancing around the reason he’s in the hospital room to begin with.

They are so careful to avoid it that Martin Whitly’s unspoken name becomes a heavy, choking weight in the air.

Malcolm can tell they’re worried with every short, monosyllabic answer he gives them, but he can’t seem to muster up the strength to engage in the conversations. He’s not sure how he can let them know that this is better. That this numbness that’s settled over him is so much better than what he felt in the cabin.

He’s not sure how he can tell them that he’s afraid the moment he breaks through that numbness, all he is going to feel is anger.

By the time he’s discharged, a headache has started to pound in his temples and he just needs to be alone. He doesn’t think he can survive the trip back to New York, stuck in a car with other people constantly watching him like he’s about to break, without having a few minutes by himself.

They’re standing in the waiting room, waiting for everyone in the group to gather before they head back to New York, when Malcolm locks eyes with Ainsley.

A crease appears between her brows, but finally, she gives him a small nod before moving to distract their mother.

He can feel Dani clocking his movements as he makes his way to the front doors, but she doesn’t try to stop him. Something he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to express his gratitude for.

Cold air greets him with a sharp sting against his skin. Slowly, he makes his way along the sidewalk circling the hospital, crutches thumping against the cement, until he reaches a small bench. He settles down awkwardly onto it, not caring that it’s still wet enough to soak through his clothes, and places the crutches beside him.

It surprising, the longing that grips him when he glances around, sunlight a too-bright flare on the wet parking lot, blinding off parked cars. He didn’t realize how much he missed being outside. He was only with his father for a few days, but during that short time his entire world narrowed down to that small, dark room and things like sunlight and fresh air became the stuff of fables.

Malcolm breathes in slow through his nose. It rained the night before and the cement smells sharp and wet, mingling with that rich, earthy smell that always follows a storm. Petrichor, he thinks absently. The smell of the ground after it rains. He almost wishes it was still raining. He’s always liked watching the streaks of grey coursing to the ground, listening to the rumble as they collide with the roof or the ground.

For some reason, that image, raindrops splattering against the harsh, unyielding ground, splinters through him. He is wrung out and exhausted and now that he’s out here, alone and away from prying eyes, he feels everything he’s shoved down boiling to the surface, quick and choking.

All the fear and the panic and the terror and the _disgust_ tear into him with the force of a knife through the stomach and he curls forward from the pain of it, a tattered sob shuddering through him.

He stares down at his trembling hands through a veil of tears and they are clean and bloody, clean and bloody with each blink and he is a _monster_ , just like his father.

Because what is a monster but someone who places one life above another? Back at the cabin, Daniel Watson, a living, breathing human being, became _nothing_. Just an acceptable loss. The moment Martin mentioned the deal, Malcolm started justifying Daniel’s murder in his head. He didn’t know Daniel, he didn’t know what type of person he was. He had no effect whatsoever on Malcolm’s life and his absence from the world wouldn’t matter. Anyone else- anyone from his family, from the team- and the decision would have torn him to shreds, but this was an easy trade. A simple mathematical problem.

That is his father in him. More than the anger, the rage, and the bloodlust. That cold evaluation of a human life. Ending one to meet a need.

And he would have done it too. He knows this as assuredly as he knows he would have twisted that knife in his father's stomach had Gil not been there. He would have done it in however long, painful, torturous way his father demanded.

He was willing to _murder someone._

Nausea rises sharp and biting up his throat and he buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, chest heaving in panicked gasps. He tried so hard to be different. Tried so hard to be better than his father, but it was all so futile in the end and he is terrified. Terrified of what he will do next, of what will happen if he feels that anger again, if he’s faced with a decision like that again. Terrified of being dragged down and swallowed whole by his father’s sins. His own sins.

There's the soft tread of shoes against cement, a rustle of fabric, and he feels someone settling down on the bench beside him. Malcolm knows, without even having to look, that it's Gil. He stiffens and sits back, letting his hands fall limp to his lap, and desperately tries to pull it all back inside of him, stuff all the fear and the loathing under that heavy layer of numbness, only to find that he can't. His worst fear of twenty years has become a reality and it keeps breaking out of him in ragged, too shallow gasps and sobs and he can't stop it. 

Gil doesn’t speak. He doesn’t offer hollow reassurances, cleverly phrased platitudes pulled straight off condolence cards. Doesn’t ask questions or try to distract him. He just sits, one arm moving to wrap around Malcolm’s shoulders, and lets Malcolm spill everything out in body-wracking sobs. Silent support until Malcolm feels an exhausted resignation settle heavy onto his chest, his tears breaking apart into soft hiccups and shuddered breaths.

For a moment, they sit there in the cold, staring out at the parking lot, until Gil’s shoulders shift in a sigh.

“If I get a cold from sitting out here with you, you’re officially off the team.”

The normalcy in that dry joke catches Malcolm by surprise. A chuckle rises up his throat before dissolving into a sigh and he tilts his head back, eyes sliding closed.

Maybe he’s closer to being like his father, pushed to the brink of snapping. Maybe the anger and the hate crackling underneath the surface of his skin will never truly go away. It will grow and grow until he can’t hide it anymore. Maybe one day Gil and Dani and JT and Edrisa and his family will all hate him, just like they do his father, and maybe he’ll deserve that hatred.

But there is a victory in living, even if not for himself. There’s a victory in Gil being alive.

Gil, who’s a good man. Gil, who’s saved his life more times than he can count. Gil, who will stop him before he can do anything unspeakable.

Gil is still alive.

“I have heard they’re deadly for people your age.” It’s a croak, hardly louder than the distant sounds of traffic, and half-hearted. But he can feel Gil’s relief, as palpable as the cold chill against the tear-stained skin of his cheeks, and he feels a faint, exhausted contentment that he can at least do one thing right for now.

“Smartass,” Gil’s voice curls with amusement as he pushes himself to his feet and holds out the crutches to Malcolm. “Now, let’s go home before your mother has to track us down.”

Malcolm grabs the crutches and follows Gil back to the others, waiting for them in the parking lot. Ready to take him back to his home, back to his life.

And maybe this is where he’s always meant to be, ruined and broken and monstrous, with a future locked away in a psychiatric hospital or thrown in some hole for the rest of his life. Maybe Gil will forever be marred by Malcolm’s mistakes, scarred and traumatized because he wasn’t good enough, but Gil is alive.

And maybe he can cling to that victory to keep himself afloat, to keep who he truly is at bay, for as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! A conversation between Gil and Martin, Gil talking some sense into Malcolm, and a little team bonding time.


	8. Chapter 8

Gil is no stranger to nightmares.

He’s seen enough horrors throughout his years on the job to have his fair share of sleepless nights. He woke Jackie up more times than he can count, jerking up with a choked off scream from some nightmare. But these ones are different.

They stalk him into waking hours, clinging to him long after the sun has risen. They linger in the corner of his own home, Martin Whitly moving in his peripheral vision only to disappear when Gil whirls around, heart in his throat. They rear when he moves wrong and pain sparks in his shoulder, or his side, or his hand. Memories and what if’s and new scenarios digging their claws in deep into his head.

It’s been a few weeks since he’s had a decent night’s sleep and he doesn’t understand how Malcolm has been able to function for so long on so little rest. He’s accidentally thrown his phone away twice, poured coffee instead of milk into his cereal, dropped almost every single mug that he has, and has slammed his leg into every sharp-edged corner he has in his house.

He is tired. He is irritated. And he is desperate to move on.

Which is why he’s at Clairmont Psychiatric.

Gil is sure his therapist would warn him that visiting the same man who lurks in the shadows of his nightmares isn’t the best way to cope with a situation, but Gil has always comforted himself in the tangible. For him, there’s nothing more reassuring than seeing a suspect locked up behind bars. There’s nothing more reassuring than seeing for yourself that the person who harmed you can’t do it anymore.

He needs to see this. He needs to see the thick chains on Martin’s wrists. The indifference on the face of his new guard. The bars and the cage and the new, heavier security measures keeping the serial killer trapped.

The old cell is gone, replaced with one that actually looks like a prison cell. No books. No desk. No TV or phone. Just a thin cot tucked into one corner and thick bars and maybe Gil feels a bit of vindictive pleasure at that. At the knowledge that Martin is finally locked up the way he always should have been, all his previous amenities stripped away.

But Martin lounges on the cot like it’s a memory foam mattress, comfortable and relaxed despite the drained pallor to his skin. He doesn’t sit like a man who’s been stabbed by his son and had eight stitches sewing the skin of his side together. He doesn’t sit like a man who’s going to spend the rest of his life locked away in a cell.

He sits like a man who believes he’s won.

Gil stops a few steps away from the bars as the door closes behind him, hands crossed lightly in front of him, the fingers of his good hand tapping gently on his cast.

Martin glances up, languid and bored, at the sound of the door slamming shut and Gil expects to feel that same rush of anger he felt at the cabin the moment Martin’s eyes meet his. That same fierce rage he felt when he stood over an unconscious Martin, broken lamp clutched in a white-knuckled hand, every inch of his body aching with the urge to beat the life out of the man before him.

But he doesn’t.

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” Martin breathes and then his lips spread into a pleasant smile. A smile that’s meant to be charming, but Gil’s seen enough of Martin’s true smiles, edged sharp as a blade and dripping in bloodlust, to not be fooled. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“I wanted to see it for myself. You locked behind bars again.”

“Ah, are we gloating now, Gil?” Martin’s voice dips into teasing admonishment, eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s not terribly mature for a man your age.” He pushes himself to a straighter sitting position and there’s a stiffness to his movements, a flinch of pain flickering across his face, that he tries to hide behind a pointed glance at Gil’s broken hand. “How’s the hand? Healing well?”

Gil’s smile is tight, sardonic. “Now who’s gloating?”

“Oh no, the question was merely out of professional curiosity. I’ve always found hand surgery to be quite fascinating.” His voice softens. “All those delicate bones, so easily shattered beyond repair.”

And it’s there, that little flickering memory of agony coursing through his hand, blinding and hot, but Gil focuses instead on the faint rattle of chains around Martin’s wrists, the bars dissecting his face in firm lines, and the memory slides away. Sand through his fingers. “It’s healing just fine.” Gil drops a contemplative stare to his hand. “The cast will actually be off in a few more weeks and I’ll be one step closer to regaining normal motion. Almost as if nothing happened.”

“Good for you.” A tight edge hedges Martin’s voice and stiffens his smile. “And how’s my son?” He leans to the side to peer around Gil, as if Malcolm is lurking just behind him. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

“I don’t think you’re going to get many visitors anymore.” Gil lets his eyes wander pointedly around the barren room. “You’re going to have a lot of alone time.”

Martin scoffs. “I killed twenty-three people, slowly and painfully, and yet they still allowed me my books, and my consultations, and my visitors. Do you really think this is going to change anything? Do you really think a minor kidnapping is going to stop the hospital from using my services to gain a little extra money?” Martin grins, and this time it’s more of a baring of teeth than an act of smiling. “Besides, my boy is resourceful when it comes to something he wants. He’ll find a way if he has to.”

Gil tilts his head, baffled. “Do you really think he’s going to visit you after everything you’ve done?”

“Of course. He’s experiencing a lot of new, confusing emotions and who to better help him than his own father? I have felt what he’s feeling, after all.”

Gil’s eyebrows rise and a scoff, bitter and disbelieving, blows past his lips. “You think he’s going to seek help from the father who kidnapped and tortured him? The father he stabbed?”

“Not in a vital area. He knows where to stab someone when you actually want to kill them. Trust me.” Martin lets his words hang in the air between them, heavy and weighted, before he tilts his head, a smug smile curling the corners of his lips. “He probably has a lot of questions now, and you know him, he won’t stop until he gets answers. I’m sure I’ll be seeing him very soon.”

Pressing his lips together, Gil just nods his head slowly. He knows Martin is trying to goad him. Trying to provoke him into a reaction, to spark fear or anger in his chest, and it might have worked in the past. But now, standing in this cell, after everything that’s happened, Martin’s constant struggle for power just makes him feel indifferent. It seems so trivial. Pointless. The grasping of a desperate man.

“If he wants to talk to you, then that’s his choice,” Gil finally says. “But it’s certainly not going to change anything about him.”

A muscle twitches in Martin’s jaw, a flicker pulse of anger, there and then gone. “You must think you can save him. That you can change him into something he’s not.” Martin leans forward, eyes intent and bright, and there’s just the barest hint of a hiss in his voice, a faint trace of a possessive curl. “But you _can’t_. He’s my son.”

Gil shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t need to. He saves himself. Has since he was a child.”

Martin’s expression turns contemplative. “That’s quite a lot of faith you have, considering you don’t know what he’s done. All that playacting, pretending to be his father, and you don’t know who he truly is.” The grin returns to his face, shadowed by the real version. “The stories I could tell.”

Gil laughs, a short burst of astonished sound, and for a brief moment, Martin’s expression turns murderous before he wrangles it back into polite confusion.

“Care to share what’s so amusing?” He asks.

“You think you’re so intelligent, but you really don’t get it, do you?” Gil shakes his head. “I don’t care what he did back then. All I care about is who he is now. And he is so much stronger than you will ever be.”

A tightness settles around the edges of Martin’s eyes and the corners of his lips, a coiling of his shoulders and hands, and it reminds Gil of that little bit of calm before a bomb explodes. That brief bit of peace before a shattering eruption of heat and fire.

“Well,” Martin hisses. “Isn’t he lucky to have someone like you. His little guardian angel dumping all this ill-founded faith on him.”

Gil just smiles. He knew when he made this decision that visiting Martin might dredge up more nightmares. Flashbacks. Might tie that panic and fear and pain and desperation back around his neck like a noose. But now, faced with the tangible reality of Martin’s imprisonment, Gil feels something inside of him settle just a little.

He taps his good hand against the bars, the cool, solid unmovable press of metal against the skin of his fingers. “I think I’ve seen all I’ve needed to see. Goodbye, Martin.”

He turns his back on the serial killer and hears the rattle of chains, a faint, sharp intake of pained breath, and knows without looking that Martin’s pushed himself to his feet. Gil wonders then if this is why he doesn’t feel that same deadly hatred coursing through his veins. Because he is healing, slow and steady, with a few backslides and nightmares, but still _healing_ and moving on with his life. And Martin is stuck back in his cage, playing the same old games, always, always, trying to snatch control.

“We are the same, Arroyo, him and I,” Martin calls after him. “If anything, this little vacation proves it. He knows it, you might as well accept it too.”

Gil doesn’t answer, doesn’t look back, and the door closes shut, final and resounding, behind him.

* * *

Malcolm’s world keeps slipping out of alignment.

During the weeks following the hospital, time keeps bending around him. Pulling back on itself. Shuffling around, rearranging, or slipping completely through the cracks. He knows it’s a symptom of shock, a side-effect of trauma, but part of him wonders if it’s also because he indulged his mother and spent a few nights at home. Sleeping in the house he grew up in, where despite Jessica’s best efforts and all the time and energy spent redecorating, Martin Whitly’s presence is still embedded into the very bricks of the house.

It’s hard focusing on the present when he’s surrounded by relics of the past.

He stares at the door to his flat, eyes tracing the familiar lines of graffiti decorating the metal, and distantly wonders if his apartment will be the same as the mansion now. If his father’s presence will linger as prominent as the weapons’ case on his wall. If memories of that night will be tucked neatly into the corners of his home, pressed firmly into the floorboards.

He breathes in, slow and steady, before unlocking his door, chest hollowed out by a heavy resignation. It’s starting to seem like there’s never going to be a place he can escape to that hasn’t been tainted by his father. His every waking moment is always going to shadowed by the Surgeon.

Everything has been slightly off-kilter. The _now_ not lining up with the _before_. Similar but just different enough to keep him on edge.

He wakes up screaming, like normal. Covered in sweat, heartbeat a hummingbird flutter in his chest, breath a torn gasp from his lungs. But it’s not fear that wakes him up anymore. It’s a deep-seated rage.

It’s a reversal, an inverted version of his nightmares that might be fascinating if it didn’t scare him. He used to wake up terrified and then get angry, frustrated at missing patches of time, mind spinning from fractured memories. Now he wakes up angry, his head filled with too-fresh horrors, too-clear memories, and gets terrified because the rage burning through his veins doesn’t go away. It’s still there, sunk deep and permanent into the very marrow of his bones, no matter what he does.

He takes his meds. He does his daily affirmations. His yoga. Visits Gabrielle. But it all feels like he’s just biding his time. That he’s just gathering the shattered pieces of himself and trying to fit them together with nothing but sheer force, only to have them fall apart the moment he removes his hand.

Malcolm pushes the door open and stares up at the long flight of stairs wreathed in shadows. Memories of that night tug at the edges of his mind, insistently bleeding into the present. He clenches his jaw and shoves past them, pushing himself to move before Adolpho, watching from the car by the curb, gets worried enough to try and take him back to the mansion. He’s survived long enough with bits of the past stubbornly clinging to him, he can handle this just fine.

The ascent up the stairs makes him bitterly realize his mother might have been right when she used them as an excuse for him to stay with her, and he is sure, wherever she is, she has somehow felt that thought echoing through his mind and will be extra smug the next time she sees him. Navigating the narrow stairway with crutches is awkward, but he manages it without tumbling backward. He pushes the door open and steps into his home, breath held in his throat.

The apartment is the same.

Clean and sparkling, the sharp scent of whatever cleaning agent his mother’s army of maids used lingering in the air. The counters have been scrubbed clean, the floors swept and polished. The sheets on his bed neatly folded and Sunshine chirps in her cage. There’s not a single, tangible sign of what happened. It’s all been scrubbed clean with professional efficiency.

But he catches flashes in the corner of his vision as he makes his way to the kitchen. Gil tied to a chair in front of his bed. His father walking down the stairs. A cup of tea on the counter. A pool of blood on the floor. The pride in his father’s smile.

Malcolm closes his eyes. He breathes. A strained, stuttering pull of air, panic stirring in his chest.

_My father was the first person I stabbed, too._

Malcolm latches onto that statement like a life-preserver, dragging him out of the panic threatening to claw him down by examining every single word. Lining them up with all the small tidbits of information Martin’s dropped about his parents over the years. His mind has frantically circled back to that statement over the past few days, puzzling over every inch of it like a case he has to solve.

Why? Why did Martin stab his own father? Was it in self-defense? Was it out of rage? The need to cause someone else pain? Why?

Part of him feels like if he can pin down the answer, he can figure out just how truly alike they are. There’s a desperate, manic hope burning in his head that maybe it wasn’t out of self-defense, like Malcolm’s had been. That maybe there was a different reason and they really aren’t the same at all. That he hasn’t started following in his father’s footsteps.

But there’s really only one person who can give him those answers and Malcolm’s not sure he can talk to Martin. He’s torn, split down the middle by his need for answers and his desire to never see his father again.

A rap of knuckles against the door pulls him away from his thoughts. He glances over his shoulder in time to see Gil step inside, tucking the key Malcolm gave him years ago back into his pocket.

“Hey, kid,” Gil greets him with a smile. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Malcolm answers and ignores the way Gil rolls his eyes. The bruises on his face are gone, as are the stiff movements from the cut in his side, but the cast is still there, and it takes every effort Malcolm has left not to let his eyes linger on it too long. He looked a little too guilty once, staring at Gil’s cast, and Gil went off on a twenty-minute long rant about how it wasn’t his fault.

“How are you?” He asks, setting the crutches against the counter and pulling himself onto one of the stools.

“Fine,” Gil shoots back pointedly and Malcolm snorts. “The others are on their way. They had to stop to pick up some food.”

“You guys really didn’t have to do this,” Malcolm says. “I would have been just fine on my own.”

“I’m sure you would have. But you’re a part of the team now, and that means impromptu ‘welcome back’ parties.”

Malcolm just grunts and glances down at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. The thought that they want to keep him company is nice, but part of him just wants to stay home alone. While the other part of him wants to never be alone again. He heaves a heavy sigh, lifting a hand to rub his temple. It’s times like these when he wishes he could take some of his mother’s special stack of drugs without worrying about being trapped in a nightmare. The thought of tumbling into a sleep-hazed oblivion sounds delightful.

Gil moves to stand beside the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and regards him in that furrowed browed, thoughtful way that means he’s going to ask a question Malcolm doesn’t want to answer. Already, Malcolm can feel his mind clambering for a distraction, cycling through the possibilities and dismissing them at a desperately quick pace. _Have I shown you my newest sword? How about this book I found? Would you like to help me throw away every single bag of tea I own?_ But Gil speaks before Malcolm can settle on one.

“What happened to Martin, back at the cabin,” he speaks slowly, pointedly, and Malcolm has to resist the urge to close his eyes, like that will stop Gil from speaking. “You know that doesn’t make you anything like him, right?”

Malcolm plasters on a fake smile, too tight and stretched on his face. _Of course not_. The words rise to the tip of his tongue, a knee-jerk reaction, and his lips move to shape them, to push them out into the air with enough force and surety to make them true, but they stall at the edge of his teeth. Clawed back inside by doubt and fear and the weight-bearing down, so heavy, on his shoulders and his smile dies in inches.

“I wanted to kill him.” He drops his gaze to the counter as he speaks, the words whispered on an air of disgust, and as soon as they fall from his lips he wants to brush them out of existence. But he forces himself to keep talking. He owes it to Gil to let him know just what kind of person he is. “I was going to kill him. I _wanted_ to kill him, I still-“ He cuts off with a frustrated noise and glances to the side, jaw clenching tight and hand curling into a fist on the counter.

A heavy silence follows his words and Malcolm wants to drown in it. He wants to drag that fear back into his mouth, tuck the words into the back of his head, forever unspoken, where they should have stayed because he is an _idiot_ and he needs to look at Gil, needs to gauge his reaction, needs to think of a way to change the subject, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , and he doesn’t want to lose this.

But maybe he deserves to.

“Kid.” When Gil speaks, his voice is tight, coiled and simmering with an emotion Malcolm can’t quite name, but one that dips close enough to anger to send tension coiling across Malcolm’s shoulders. “He hurt you. Time and time again. That hate you feel? That anger? That’s a perfectly normal reaction.”

Malcolm’s gaze snaps back to Gil before he can stop himself, startled, and Gil looks angry but mostly pained, and that anger is not directed at him.

“Hell, I wanted to beat his head in with a lamp.” Gil gestures to himself, a short, quick movement. “Does that make me a serial killer, too?”

“That’s not the same.”

“Yes, it’s exactly the same, because neither of us acted on it. We didn’t follow through with it because we have the one thing he’s always been desperate for. Control.” He looks at Malcolm, searching, and his voice softens. “You aren’t alone in feeling that way, kid, trust me.”

Malcolm sucks in a quick breath. “Do you still feel that way?”

Sighing, Gil leans his hip against the counter. “Up until a few hours ago, yeah. And I’m sure they’ll still be days when it’ll hit me like a truck. But I’ll get through it, just like you will.” Gil smiles, slightly teasing. “You’re too stubborn to let it consume you.”

Malcolm's jaw works, hand tightening and tightening until his knuckles ache, but it’s nothing compared to the knot constricting his chest. “And what about Watson?”

Gil’s expression darkens. “No,” he says, voice firm and commanding, “There’s no point in torturing yourself with _what if’s_.”

Malcolm shakes his head and stares at a point just over Gil’s shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is a broken whisper, it’s every shattered feeling inside of him given sound. “There was no _what if_.” His breath catches in his throat, snagged on a hot well of shame, and a prickle of heat stabs the back of his eyes. “Who does that, Gil? What kind of heartless monster picks someone over another person just because-just because it would be easier?”

He forces himself to look back at Gil and for a long moment, stretched out and thin to the point of cracking, they just stare at each other, Gil shocked into silence, Malcolm on the edge of breaking.

“What do you think I would have done if the roles had been reversed?” Gil finally whispers, voice hoarse. “Don’t you think I would have considered the same choice? Don’t you think I would have-“ He cuts himself off, glancing away with his lips pressed tight, before he sighs, a shuddering sound, and shakes his head. “The only monster in that scenario was the bastard who tried to force you to choose between two people.”

Malcolm stares down at the counter, at his hand, shaking shaking shaking on the hard surface. He feels more than hears Gil shifting, hears the slight intake of breath, and knows that Gil is about to speak again. He’s about to offer more words of comfort because Gil is good and kind and he cares about people.

But he doesn’t know everything.

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut against the heat burning them and sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, the knot in his chest coiling tighter. He’s already pushed himself to the edge, he might as well step forward into the drop.

“What if it’s not the first time?” He whispers.

“What do you mean?”

And his hand shakes and shakes and shakes, a violent tremor against the marble, vision blurring. “The camping trip I took with my father, I keep getting fragments in my head and I know Paul was there with us and-and there was someone else too.” His breathing picks up speed, short, staccato bursts that don’t seem to reach his lungs. Panic sinks sharp and pointed into his chest, sends useless energy skittering across his skin, frantic and insistent, and it feels like it’s going to burst out of his skin, tear him to shreds. “I think they took the girl in the box and I remember having a knife...and my father was trying to. . . I was covered in blood and scared and I don’t-“

And that night and the panic swallow him whole because he’s back in the forest, a knife in his hand, or he’s back in that cabin, a knife in his hand, and his father is whispering in his ear, urging him on, and is there really any difference between them they’re both the same, a knife and blood and death, and _they’re both the same_ -

A hand grips his shoulder, tight and grounding, and Malcolm jerks back into the present with a choked gasp. Gil stands in front of him, hunched over enough to peer wide-eyed and worried into Malcolm’s face, one hand on his shoulder and it’s then that Malcolm realizes, hazed and distant, that he’s trembling, the shaking in his hand having traveled throughout every inch of him, in his arms and his legs and the stutter of his lungs.

“ _Bright_.” Gil’s voice is tight and corded with enough worry and panic that Malcolm knows this isn’t the first time he’s said Malcolm’s name. “Bright, I need you to breathe. Okay? Just breathe.”

They sit like that, for minutes that might stretch into hours, just breathing, until the hitch in Malcolm's chest smooths out into deeper, fuller breaths, and the trembling slows. He’s too exhausted to feel embarrassment over almost having a panic attack in front of Gil. He’s too tired and exhausted to do much more than watch as relief bleeds into the tight, pinched look on Gil’s face.

“Kid,” Gil says, voice as firm and steady as the grip he still holds on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You were ten. You were a _child_ and you were with someone you should have been able to trust completely, and he used that against you. Anything that happened during that camping trip was his fault.”

Malcolm shakes his head, once, twice, all of his edges frayed and raw. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“Okay, okay, fine, you’re right. I don’t know exactly what happened. So why don’t we view this like a case and piece it together based on what we do know.” Gil leans back a little, but he doesn’t move his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder, something Malcolm feels a surge of gratitude for. He might slip through the cracks in the floor if Gil lets go. “You went on a camping trip with your father and another serial killer. Someone else was there. A potential victim. You think you might have had a role in their death, and that makes you like Martin. And then, a week later, you call the cops and have your father arrested, right?”

All Malcolm can do is nod his head, clenching his jaw tight against the memories still prowling around his head.

“If you were anything like your father, then why did you call the cops? Maybe it’s because I’m not a fancy profiler, but that doesn’t sound like the actions of a budding serial killer. That sounds to me like someone who was fully aware of how wrong their father’s actions were. That sounds like someone who was brave enough to try and stop a very dangerous man.”

Malcolm just stares at him, not daring to breathe. Hope, somehow, has always been more suffocating than panic. Maybe because it’s never alone, always twined tight with a fierce and aching _longing_ , always edged with doubt and fear, because Martin’s voice still hisses in his ear, still warns that they’re all going to leave once they know everything about him, but Gil is still here. Gil is still here, still smiling at him.

Gil still believes there’s some good in him.

“You know what I do know, as a sure, one hundred percent fact?” Gil continues. “Despite everything that’s happened, despite everything Martin Whitly has done to you, you still choose to be good. And don’t try to deny that, ‘cause I’ve got a whole pile of solved cases that prove otherwise.”

“Martin saved plenty of people as a surgeon,” Malcolm whispers, but it’s half-hearted, weak, because his hope keeps growing.

“Martin didn’t surround himself day in and day out with highly trained, highly intelligent detectives. Do you really think they wouldn’t have noticed?”

The doorway buzzer rings, sharp and staticky in the room, and Malcolm jolts, gaze snapping to the door. Excuses to move, to stand and let them inside, flood his mouth but Gil moves to stand between him and the door, ducking his head down until he can catch Malcolm’s eyes again.

“There’s a strength in you, kid. It’s always been there, ever since you were young, and it’s not going to break for him.” Gil smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he gives Malcolm’s shoulder one final squeeze. “And I’ll remind you of that. Every single day until you actually believe me. Some of your stubbornness has rubbed off on me.”

A surprised snort bursts out of his mouth as someone presses the buzzer again. And again. And again. Somehow making it sound progressively more annoyed with each press.

Gil rolls his eyes as he straightens. “And I know of some other people who will be more than happy to remind you of it too, if they don’t break your door down.” Gil glances back at Malcolm, gaze searching. “You want me to let them in?”

Malcolm looks back at him and knows that Gil will go downstairs and tell them to go back home if Malcolm says no. And he knows the team will listen and leave without complaints, because it would be something he needed, and against all odds and reason they actually seem to like him. And knowing that makes the decision easy.

“Yes,” he says. “Let them in, please.”

Gil nods his head and makes his way towards the door while Malcolm scrubs the tears off his face with the heel of his hand. He feels as tired as he did that day at the hospital, but not wrung out, not empty. It’s a peaceful kind of tired. A hopeful kind.

He calls out for Gil and Gil stops with one hand on the doorknob, one eyebrow raised.

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, wishing those two words could carry the weight of twenty-years behind them.

But Gil smiles like he knows anyway. “Back at you, kid.”

Malcolm pushes himself to an unsteady balance on one leg, carefully brushing the wrinkles off his suit before twisting to face the door.

The team walk in on a wave of sound. Dani and JT each carry plastic bags by the smell of which Malcolm can only assume are filled with takeout. They’re followed by a stumbling, precarious mountain of board games and bags that Malcolm guesses to be Edrisa, Gil following close behind her with his hands out to catch her should she topple under all that weight.

“We brought food,” Dani says, holding up a bag with a little shake.

She glances over at him as she places the bags on the counter, one eyebrow raised. Malcolm answers the unspoken question with a small shrug, and she nods her head, satisfied. He’s not sure how they reached this point where they can communicate without words, but they have, and he feels a small bit of warmth unfurl in his chest.

“We also made sure to get some vegetables.” JT shoots him a pointed look as he sets his bag and a case of beer on the counter. “You have heard of those, right?”

Malcolm levels an unamused look at him. “Yes, believe it or not. I’ve even tried a few of them.”

“Uh-huh,” JT grunts, disbelieving. “Just thinking about your diet gives me cavities.”

An enthusiastic “Bright!” and the thud of footsteps on the floor stop Malcolm from answering. He twists around just in time for Edrisa, newly freed from her bags, to fling her arms around him with enough force that the counter behind him is the only thing that stops them from tumbling to the ground. Ever since that day in the hospital, Edrisa has taken every chance she has to give him a hug. Some of them might linger a little longer than even he thinks is socially acceptable, but he doesn’t really mind.

She’s a good, enthusiastic hugger, hugging tight enough like she can force all the bad thoughts out of a person through sheer force and will alone.

She steps back, grinning broad enough to coax out a smile of his own before her head turns on a swivel as she takes in every inch of the flat. “You have quite a lovely bed- _home_. Home. You have a lovely home.”

Malcolm smiles at the blush burning her cheeks bright red. “Thank you. It’s a little strange being back, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it again soon.”

“You know, if you ever have trouble sleeping here by yourself, you can always come over to my place,” Edrisa offers in the overly causal way of someone trying very, very hard to sound blasé. “I have an insanely comfortable futon.”

“Seriously,” JT deadpans while Dani rustles the bags of food loud enough to cover her snort. “It hasn’t even been two minutes.”

Edrisa slides him a glare before pointedly turning back to Malcolm. “I’ve also brought some puzzles we can do, or I’ve devised a murder mystery for us to solve. I know it’s nothing close to an actual crime, but I thought it would be fun figuring out which one of us killed JT.”

JT scowls at her. “You really think after everything’s he’s been through, he’s going to want to-“

“How did he die?” Malcolm interrupts, interest piqued. He’s never played a murder mystery game before, but it’s been so long since he’s had a case to distract himself that the idea sounds intriguing.

JT slowly tilts his head to shoot Malcolm a burning _are you for real_ look while Dani ducks her head, lips bunched to the side in a futile attempt to fight off a grin.

Edrisa’s eyes light up and she takes a step forward, her hands fluttering through the air, body brimming with uncontained excitement. “Well, at first glance, it’s strangulation. But upon further inspection, we’ll find the cause is a lot more gruesome than that.”

“There’s a hidden method?” Malcolm breathes, oblivious to the way JT glares at him, mind already ticking through all the possibilities. “So, whoever did it has to be knowledgeable enough to create a plausible red herring. And the killer can only be one of our characters?”

“Can you at least try to sound less excited about me being dead?” JT grumbles.

Malcolm brushes him aside with a wave of his hand. “It’s not so much you being dead as the method in which you died.”

“’Cause that makes it better,” he mutters.

Dani pats a disgruntled JT on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll avenge you.”

“So, it’s decided then!” Edrisa claps her hands together, eyes slight and smile beaming. “I’ll go get the costumes!”

She dashes to her bags, ignoring JT’s loud protests and Dani’s sudden and bewildered alarm.

“How am I supposed to play if I’m dead?” JT asks.

“You’re a ghost.” Edrisa doesn’t look up from her rummaging, pulling out an alarming number of wigs.

“A ghost.”

“I added a supernatural element to spice things up. You try to give players clues. The catch is you can’t talk.”

“I like this game already,” Malcolm says and grins when JT glares at him.

Beside him, Gil laughs but a shadow rears in the corner of Malcolm’s vision. The hazy outline of someone bound to a chair, the looming shadow of his father stalking closer, and his breath catches in his throat.

And then there’s the familiar weight of Gil’s hand on the back of his neck, a reassuring squeeze. The voices of his team filter back in, filling the apartment as Dani adamantly refuses the bright red wig Edrisa shoves in her direction, JT pulling his phone out for potential blackmail pictures, and the ground steadies just a little under Malcolm’s feet.

He closes his eyes and he breathes and when he opens them again, the shadows at the edges of his vision are gone.

Things are different now, yes. The _then_ and the _there_ always floating at the edges of his mind. The pain and the panic and the fear and the memories clawing too close and too sharp. Even now, Martin’s voice echoes in his head but this time, Malcolm chooses to drown him out with Gil’s words.

Because he has the _here_ and the _now_. This moment wrapped in warmth and laughter and the smell of takeout and the excitement of a murder mystery game. And he has them. A team. Friends. People who will help pull him back up when he falls just a little into that darkness.

And there are some things that are the same, despite Martin’s best efforts. There’s that same strength he had as a ten-year-old, picking up the phone to dial 911. The same strength that refused to bend under his father’s will. The same strength that pushes him forward, through the good and the bad and the absolutely terrible days, and will continue to do so.

Dani turns around to face him, one hand holding a hat that looks suspiciously like it came from an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes and the other hand clutching an old-fashioned pipe, lips curled into a smirk as she offers them to him. JT snorts and Malcolm feels his own laugh, soft but happy, slip past his lips. And that laugh booms into a side-clutching, gasping cackle when Edrisa tires to shove a bald cap in Gil’s direction.

Malcolm is intimately familiar with the sensation of falling. Hypnic jerks are the most common. But, in the end, those are nothing more than tricks of the brain. False and hollow, feeling like you’re plummeting through the dark, stomach swooping, only to jerk awake with a gasp, safely and securely tucked in bed.

And maybe that falling sensation he’s been experiencing ever since Gil went missing is just that. Just another hypnic jerk. Just another trick of the brain. Because he’s here now, they all are, safe and sound and healing, at the other end of it. He’s not broken or shattered at the end of that false fall, but whole and strong, with two feet planted firmly on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, and bookmarked this. The story truly wouldn't have ever been completed without you guys, so thank you, so so very much, for taking the time to read this little story. You guys are truly the absolute best.
> 
> Also, I'm on tumblr at the-ginger-avenger should any of you guys want to scream about this show with me.


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